The Schemer
by Rogue Enigma
Summary: Every reputable city needs its supplies of teachers, firefighters, policemen and lawyers. Gotham was hardly a reputable city. Nevertheless, it still needed its surgeons. Clara Moore, a former war doctor, had her own rules. Plans. Control. But one man decided to test her rules. After all, he knew that sometimes only a little push is required to make someone's order crumble.
1. Stayin' Alive

_Blood. Blood. Patient number fifty-seven. Blood. Patient number thirteen. Blood. Patient number sixty-one. Blood. Blood. Number eighty. Number fifteen. Number forty-three. Seventy-seven. Ninety-five. Fifty-two. Fifty-two? Fifty-two!_

 _Blood._ _Blood. Blood._

 _BLOOD!_

"FUCK!"

With a strangled groan, a dark-haired woman sat up in her bed, cold sweat dripping down her back, air coming in and out in short gasps. Teeth bared, her jaw was locked in an unmovable stiffness. "Fifty-two. James. James was number fifty-two." Muttered in a low voice, the woman's words reached her own ears, flew around and disappeared, not leaving a trace behind. Just like the person of the topic, only memory remained. Slowly, she unclenched her fists, noticing small, oval wounds starting to bleed, placed just under barely visible callouses that she possessed. Unlike words, the woman's nails left their mark, reminding of a sharp presence sometime in the past. Wiggling those long, bony fingers, she tested her ability to use hands. Not feeling any discomfort, she simply dismissed the tiny holes.

The woman's name was Clara.

Placing one foot after another on the black rug next to her bed, she rose, stretching stiff, sleep-numbed muscles.

 _Cold. Freezing cold underneath her feet. Grey concrete scratching bare limbs, sending tiny needles of pain upwards bruised legs. The same stretching, the same body. Routine. It was her routine._

It is Clara's routine now, to hold her arms high above her head, trying to reach the ceiling. Broad shoulders, transforming into elegant, yet strong arms. Wide back, merging with a long, slim torso. Powerful, muscular legs, able to hold both her own and another one's weight. Clara was a magnificent creature, possessing a body that many craved to have.

 _Troubled days, spent carrying disfigured bodies. Sleepless_ _nights, spent inside the soldiers' gym. Thoughts, crazy thoughts, raging inside her mind. Pain, both pain and relief. Then silence. Complete and utter silence. The moon was watching. A lonely, sweaty body underneath the moon._

After all, Clara was a devoted gym goer. She attended the gym of life.

Slowly making her way towards the kitchen, she moved her limbs with predatory grace and silence, observing every corner, noticing possible escape routes if an intruder happened to appear. A habit that saved her life, more than once. A low chuckle escaped Clara's mouth when she realized what was happening. The second, third or fourth month, she already has lost the count, of not hearing any moans of pain, and the woman still kept her attitude. The fifteenth day of sleeping in her new house, located at the suburban area of Gotham, of course, as much as the side of such city could be suburban, and the same dream, a nightmare waking her up.

Water. Clara needed water. And tea. Green, smooth, refreshing tea. That was everything that the woman had in the morning. No breakfast, apparently. She preferred the fasted state, with her mind sharp and ready, body craving for nutrition, and therefore forced to work harder in order to find it, to survive. When Clara pondered about her behaviour and manipulation of food, she would often get rather amused. In a deranged, so much more humane way, it was a mimicking of a caveman's existence, and at some points, when her humanity would hang on brittle strings, she could almost feel like one. Back to nature, huh?

 _Clara never had breakfast at the camp. As long as she remembered, her mornings were spent inside the laboratory, analyzing and learning at the same time. Plenty of blood examples were available, and an opportunistic person like Clara would never forgive herself if she didn't use them to her advantage. Or sometimes she would be dressed up in soldier's attire, a rifle or a machinegun in her hands, standing beside those men of a similar fate._

Nowadays, Clara spent her mornings inside her garage gym. Exchanging her nightly routine for sleep, that's what she did. An immediate change was seen, her grey eyes no longer clouded with sleep deprivation, no traces of black circles underneath. As she slept more, her bodily functions improved, too. Her vigorous exercise routine demanded a lot of energy. Clara intended to keep her musculature, for some weird, groundless reasoning that her keen mind, her instincts kept telling.

 _Push, pull. Push, pull. A squat rack made weird noises, squeaking underneath the hefty weight. Almost two hundred pounds, that's how much a typical soldier, a man weighed. Ten times, fifteen repetitions. Clara can feel her quads slowly giving up. She's ready. She will be able to help, to hold, to save. Anytime, any moment. The potential weakness of womanly lack of strength was eliminated._

She still enjoyed her martial arts combats. Clara knew a man, an elderly one, who was able to kick anybody's ass nevertheless. They trained, keeping her skills intact, ready to strike anytime. Why? The woman couldn't answer, at least not until she moved to Gotham. The city was famous for its criminals, and in the middle of a sea full of sharks, it was wise to resemble a crocodile, a predator that was just as powerful. Whilst the surgeon had no actual reasoning behind a decision of buying a house in such a city of foul reputation, she rather enjoyed the place. Her income, both as an ex-military doctor and now as a surgeon, allowed the woman to choose whatever place she liked to live in. And who knew that out of any possible place in the world, Clara would settle in Gotham.

Clara finished her routine five minutes to eight. She had to be at work exactly at nine A.M. A full hour was left to shower, dress up and drive to the centre of Gotham, where the Gotham General was located.

Wrapped in a long, dark coat, a tall figure closed the door, locking it, and manoeuvring towards a sleek, black 70's Mustang. The car was one of the most valued things in Clara's list of possessions. And who wouldn't appreciate his car, if the vehicle was a fucking Mustang? She reversed out, then sped up almost the point of the speed limit, but not exceeding it, not risking her own safety. The woman enjoyed the feeling which the quick, powerful cars brought. Excitement. She felt excited.

 _"Area number 6, Dr Moore, Dr Richardson, area number six. Five bodies, three alive, collect all of them." A large, green and brown coloured van was big enough for ten people, maybe seven when laying down. But Clara disliked the vehicle. It was slow, oh so slow, and lacked mobility. This stupid car only annoyed her. It was hard to manoeuvre it throughout the risky, dangerous zones._

Getting closer to the hospital, the number of cars increased, too. She sped up a little more, to outdrive a black van with darkened windows. Passing the vehicle, Clara tried to catch a glimpse of the driver. Nothing could be seen. "Little old ladies in big, scary cars." The sarcasm broke through her husky tone. Based on its speed, there definitely must have been someone's grandma behind the steering wheel. An old, white Persian cat in the passenger's seat, too.

Humming a self-made tune, Clara reached her destination and got out. Throwing lazy glances around her, examining these already familiar surroundings, the woman slowly made her way to the main entrance. Yesterday evening, she had read her schedule. An early procedure, appendicitis, and an urgency for a new liver. The organ had already arrived, waiting to be implanted in the stomach of a schizophrenic, old, but nevertheless rich and wealthy lady. "Grandma, grandma, time to leave. Dripping, gripping, shall we do some... Stitching?" A low chuckle escaped Clara's mouth, sending curious glances her way. Smiling and shaking her head at her own wittiness, the woman passed a lady behind the reception desk, making eye contact and nodding in acknowledgement. She had to hurry up a little, as the traffic jam had started forming, delaying Clara. Not to the point of being late, luckily. Still, she didn't come to the General at her preferred time. A point to consider the next day.

 _"Dr Moore, Clara, now! The bed number fifty-two, shot it the lung, urgent surgery. Dr Moore? Dr Moore, there is no time, come here, he's drowning in his own blood!"_

 _"Scalpel, now!"_

 _"There ain't any clean ones, Daisy was sent to disinfect them!"_

 _"Hurry up, his brains are starving without oxygen!"_

"Give me the holder. Shirley, keep an eye on her pulse. I'm cutting the old tissue out. Tom, sear her capillaries. James, pass me the liver." Sterile. Completely white, with shining scalpels and scissors, and needles, and saws. Beeping, beeping, only beeping, and slow, calm breaths. Low, rhythmic music could be heard somewhere in the background. Silent enough not to disturb, it was an inside trick of the surgeons to keep their movements rhythmical and steady, mind cool and clear. _'Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother, you're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.'_ Long-fingered hands in blue gloves moved strategically inside the dark-skinned lady's body, careful to not cause any additional damage to fragile tissues, but determined to cut out the dysfunctional, fat-surrounded organ. _'Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin', and we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.'_ \- "Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive." Using her husky tone, which most vocal coaches would describe as an example of overused vocal fry, Clara murmured the lyrics underneath her breath, silently, to not disturb nurses and interns around. "Done. Clean the wound. Good job, everybody."

 _The smell of old blood and alcohol surrounded four people in the room, standing beside the bed with a dark '52' written on its end. One of them, a tall, dark-haired woman had her hands bloodied to her elbows, digging inside a man's chest. Shallow breaths were heard, gurgling and moaning followed. "Don't close your eyes, James. Don't you dare close your fucking eyes." Grey met brown, coolness colliding with soft warmness. "His third rib on the left is shattered. Pass me the retractor to keep his skin from folding over the wound. I need to gather the bone fragments, so they wouldn't damage anything further." With a frantic rush, cutting, and sewing, they managed to minimize the bleeding. Not for long. Main arteries, damaged with sharp pieces of bone, continued their path of depleting James's body from its life juices._

"Dr Moore? Dr Moore, wait! Clara! Can I call you Clara? Would you like to have lunch together?" Like a lost puppy, one of the interns, continuing his unwritten mission of seducing the woman, kept asking her. This young man, still a boy, had his own hopes and dreams. Once, they talked about them. Never again did Clara agree to have a meal with him. Although it wasn't a meal for her - not yet. She had a drink, for once exchanging her green tea for coffee. Unfortunately, Christian Brook failed to keep the woman's interest for longer than ten minutes.

"No, and no, thank you, Mr Brook. I'm afraid I need to fill in some files. A successful mission is always being followed by boring paperwork." Not waiting for his answer, nor seeing those large, blue puppy eyes, the woman went towards her office. There, put inside a small fridge, was her actual lunch. "Chicken breast. Protein. Broccoli. Brussel sprouts. Bell pepper. Vitamins and minerals. Seeds. Fats. Absolutely beautiful." Muttering, she boiled some water for her tea. The first actual meal of the day. Proteins and fats will keep her full, support muscle repair from the previous exercise. And then there will be supper later in the day. Steak, eggs, and a huge salad, to compensate for the lack of calories in the morning. Clara remembered having those gorgeous, ripe avocados. She will add them, too. And...

Smiling softly, she opened a drawer, taking out a few pieces of the most incredible thing that human-kind managed to create while refining nature's gifts. Chocolate. Amazing dark chocolate.

Some people get obsessed over doughnuts, or pizza, or candy, peanut butter, or ice cream. Clara had her weak moments when it came to chocolate. A bar of really good quality chocolate could buy her love and loyalty.

 _"Dr. Moore? Please, have a seat. I will bring you your usual."_

 _"Thank you, James."_ _The crowd of hungry soldiers parted in front of him, knowing well to whom the tall, European man will bring the food. That's the thing: military men wanted, just craved to somehow repay for those who saved them, who commanded them, who stood beside and never wavered to risk their own lives just to protect the others. Clara Moore, being one of them, received both the respect and privileges. Half of them were patched by her sometime before, another half simply knew her from taking part besides them in the front lines._ _Quickly, James came back, with a plate of lean beef, and vegetables, spiced to perfection. A foil-wrapped bar was placed proudly on the side of the plate, luring Clara to pick and open it. War raged around the camp, but chefs still maintained quality products, making the experience of eating one of the most enjoyable throughout the day. "Gentleman as always, James."_

After finishing her lunch, Clara decided to perform the second - and last - surgery of the day. An easy one, far from being life-threatening. Someone's appendix failed to keep up with all the waste that came through his mouth, therefore deciding to remind about its existence.

 _"Stop, Clara. He's not breathing anymore. Call someone to clean up this mess." Once a sweet, caring man, now only an empty shell, a corpse left behind. Blood slowed down due to the absence of heart work. "Dr Moore, bed number sixty-five needs you. The man is experiencing some serious stomach pains, we guess it's his appendicitis." That's it. Lock emotions inside, for now, and mourn later. Mourn, and then let go._

"Here you go." Clara murmured to the unconscious man, laying on top of a metal table. "All patched up. Take him to a spare post-surgery room. Rest and ample of liquids. Supervision required, in case any complications occur. Should wake up in about thirty minutes."

That's it. Her day at work has finished. At six P.M., Clara was done much earlier than the majority of her coworkers, the people working at the hospital, and deep inside, the woman was thankful for that. Now, she could drive home and prepare that juicy steak which she fantasized about earlier. Or, even better, get in one boxing session, and then cook the food. The meat, after all, needed some time to warm up. It is never wise to pan fry a cold steak. Instead of becoming rare, it remains raw on the inside.

 _"It's time for you to go home, Clara. You're not thinking straight, and I fear that your attitude will get you killed." That's it. The end. "You're an amazing surgeon, and I have no doubt that you will be as busy as ever. Just... Don't overthink too much." Sergeant's old, wrinkly face grimaced into something similar to a smile. Clara guessed it was meant to be a smile, an encouraging one, but due to his partial face paralysis, the woman couldn't be sure._

 _"I understand. I hope to see you again someday, sergeant. Alive and whole." Her low voice echoed in an empty space, a half smirk playing on woman's lips. "I really do."_

 _Two days later, she got a message from her former colleague. The old sergeant Robbins has been blown up by dynamite. So much for a sweet farewell._

Sizzling meat, the smell of garlic and thyme, beautiful, dark sear on one side, soon to be on another one, too. Eggs are being prepared at the same time, poured straight into the pan after the meat is taken out to rest. Rest, with juices leaking out, muscle relaxing and softening up its tight fibres. Those long, slim fingers, previously cutting liver out of its bodily cave, now sliced a medium-rare steak. Silence enveloped Clara once more, leaving her to her own thoughts. A book, Stephen King's 'Cujo' waited for her, already read a number of times. The woman was willing to repeat this experience. For now, Clara was hungry for something familiar. A book and a cup of tea. A few pieces of chocolate. Always the best answer.

 _She never said her goodbyes. Laying in a new bed, seeing stars through a large window, Clara thought about what she had left behind. When James was brought home, in a flag-draped coffin, she was with him. Clara met his brother, a war veteran, too, injured to the point of having to retire from Vietnam. They talked a little, expressing their sorrow and grief. She also met James's wife and two sons, old enough to understand that their father was never to come back home again. But what neither of them, except for perhaps his brother, was capable of understanding, is the actual weight of James's situation. The loneliness, the pain, the pressure, and a desire for a friend who actually knows what he has been through. Yes, his family grieved and sympathized with the husband, the father, but never could they actually feel the full impact of the war. Bleak memories enveloped Clara in its cold embrace, draining the warmth, the light. Forcing an ancient, war-trained creature out of its cave deep within her mind._

 _But not for long. This was a woman of plans. A futurist. A schemer. And she intended to create the ultimate scheme to suit her needs. To support her new future._

 _Song of the chapter:_ _Bee Gees - Stayin' Alive_


	2. Joker on Jack

Summer in Gotham was only slightly different than summers in other cities. Only criminals rose up from their deep slumber. Drug dealers. Mobsters. Thieves. That, and chaotic men without a clear purpose. Other than that, nothing else changed, giving the surgeon a sense of familiarity.

That year, July seventeenth happened to be exactly in the middle of the week. Clara enjoyed Thursdays. Thursday meant a slow nearing of the weekend, close enough to feel it, but not here, yet. The woman, just like everybody else, was somewhat fascinated by the idea of the weekend. When you think about all those activities that you could assign yourself to, you get a river of ideas. Except, Clara's approach to leisure time consisted of slightly different plans. Although being in Gotham for over half a month now, she still lacked knowledge of the city. Famous for its criminals and Batman, but not well-known for art museums, and theatres, nor other cultural buildings. Not that Clara was overly into that, but she understood the value of knowledge, and get acquainted with one's city was definitely something of potential use. Therefore, instead of staying at home that weekend, she intended to spend some time outside. But first, two more days needed to be lived through. Two more days of small cuts and beauty-threatening scar making. Perhaps saving lives, but hardly maintaining one's features that match the classical understanding of attractiveness.

With these thoughts in mind, Clara went through her routine, not skipping a single step of it. She disliked that weird feeling, which came if eliminating one minor, but constant detail. No stretch after climbing from bed? Tiny itching at the back of her neck. Something's wrong.Leaving untidy bed? Constant thoughts about the mess that she has left behind. Not cleaning the cup after drinking morning tea? She would have a hard time concentrating at work. But this was Clara and her way of being a control freak. Whilst it might be hard to control a constantly changing outer world, it is fairly easy to have a hold on your own routine, especially if it's an enjoyable one. She enjoyed discipline. Discipline meant order, and order equalled freedom. It may be hard to understand for the majority, those, who called themselves chaotic. Funny thing, because they actually never really experienced genuine disorder in their lives. A lost shoe or a boyfriend being late is not mayhem. Clara did not belong to the majority. She knew what real chaos was, and understood that being chaotic does rarely provide one the freedom that he craves.

Leaving her home, double checking the door, the woman got inside her car. Not that a lock would help against the metaphorical sharks. It was meant to deter smaller fish, not as experienced in breaking in. Also, in Gotham, it was not wise to demonstrate your foolishness. What else would an open door indicate, other than a stupid occupant?

Driving to the Gotham's General, just like any other day, was hardly anyhow adventurous. Living at the suburban area of Gotham definitely had its benefits, like the calm wildness and small patches of forest, and a lake, too small to attract tourists, but big enough to catch some fish or have a little boat trip. Overall, to some extent that area actually met the standards of your typical countryside, only with a huge city besides.

Traffic jams were definitely something in this city, especially in the morning. Roads full of cars, modern monsters that took far too much space, with lonely drivers inside. "Who the fuck needs that?" The woman murmured underneath her breath, seeing vehicles that were made specifically for huge families, yet used by one. Clara enjoyed small, quick cars, valued their mobility and economized space. That, and also the fact that big vehicles reminded her of the time overseas.

Stuck in traffic, there was little else to do, besides staring outside. Out of boredom, the woman could either stare at her nails or out the window. The later one seemed a little more appealing. Old habits died hard, after all. And perhaps because she was trained and used to seeing minuscule details, or maybe because the surgeon was gifted with perspicacious intuition, Clara noticed a man standing on the sidewalk. A human being in the street full of men and women didn't seem suspicious at all. What caught her attention was his hair colour. Sleek and glistening against the sun, they had this weird greenish tint to them. Seemingly tall and broad-shouldered, the man had his back turned to her, slightly hunched forward. The man seemed way too old to be another youngster, dying his hair to project his punk style and anarchistic nature. After taking a better, more analytical look, Clara saw a clown mask in his left hand. "Do we have a bloody circus in this city now?" The question hovered in warm air, not answered. Cool, steely eyes followed his every move. Not that there were many. The man stood still as a statue, his baggy clothes barely moving in the light breeze. Suddenly, a silver car pulled towards him, hiding the clown from the view. Clara couldn't catch a glimpse of him anymore, only the vehicle was visible. And it wasn't big enough to clear her suspicion. "Not a circus bus, huh?" The woman's uneasiness increased with every second. Her gut feeling screamed to expect the worst from that clown, and she learned to trust her instincts a long time ago. "Oh, fuck it." Changing the parking lanes, Clara sped up and followed the grey car, murmuring curse words underneath her breath, as if there could be someone to hear it if she said it any louder.

For an outsider, it might be hard to explain what was happening in Clara's head at the moment. He doesn't know what it feels like to risk your own life to protect others, because from his young days, under the supervision of caring parents, he had been programmed to avoid trouble. Run if can, save his own ass. For a soldier, it is somewhat different. Even when raised in the same family, under the same rules, the military changes his perception and understanding. Just like a dog, even the tiniest one, has an instinct to run after a moving object, a soldier has an urge to eliminate the potential trouble. Clara was trained as a warrior, and she had the mentality of one. It was an instinctual thing to follow. Observe and interfere if needed.

It didn't take too long. They parked next to a bank, whilst Clara stopped at the other side of the street. Getting out, the previous guy from the sidewalk, now wearing his mask, turned around, apparently checking his surroundings. She recognized him from the wrinkly clothes and slight greenish colour of his hair. "Two's a company. Three clowns is a whole circus." The woman joked silently, killing the engine. Clara noticed the other two rushing towards the entrance, not bothering to get a scan of what was around them. Shaking her head at their foolishness, she was slowly tapping her finger on the steering wheel, not taking her steely gaze away. A few minutes passed, testing her patience. Her right hand reached towards the glove compartment, where she knew was a whole block of chocolate. Magnesium calms you down. The surgeon needed to stay calm.

Ten, maybe fifteen minutes passed, nothing happening. Enough was enough. Stepping out, Clara walked across the street, stalking towards where the three men disappeared. Silently, she opened the door, getting inside. The entrance was located it the corner of the main area, therefore slightly hidden by a wall. Clara could see what was happening inside and stay unnoticed at the same time.

Trusting her gut feeling was something that she learned way back in Israel. Sometimes, your brain is able to pick and connect those tiny little details that wouldn't make any sense on their own. But together they do, and this is how Clara's intuition informed her of unavoidable trouble.

She walked straight into a bank robbery, with men dressed up as clowns. Except, there were hardly any clowns anymore. She could see two laying on the ground, either dead or knocked out, the third one, with green hair, putting bags of money into a... "Bloody hell, is that a bus?" With disbelieving eyes, the woman watched him, until she noticed a movement from another man in a suit, laying on the ground. Slowly, not making any sound, when the last remaining clown turned his back to her, Clara crept behind one of the pedestals, close enough to hear the manager's shallow breathing.

"Think you're smart, huh?" _Idiot, IDIOT, shut up, you fucking IDIOT._ "Well, the guy who hired you's just do the same to you..." The clown slowly shook his head as if agreeing with Clara. _Idiot_. "Sure he will. Criminals in this town used to believe in things." The man, still wearing his mask, slowly made his way towards the one on the ground. "Honor. Respect. Look at you. What do you believe in, huh? WHAT DO YOU BELIEVE IN?" The clown crouched in front of the manager, getting dangerously close.

"I _believe_ that what doesn't _kill_ you, simply makes you... _Stranger._ "

"I prefer Schopenhauer over Nietzsche."

The clown, now without his mask, froze underneath Clara's sudden choke from behind, loose enough not to strangle, but firm nevertheless. A tube of something in his hand, ready to put it in his victim's mouth, stopped midway, surprised by an unexpected attack. One arm around the clown's neck, the other on top of his head, the woman made sure to put him in a rather dangerous position. "One wrong move and I will snap your neck."

" _Will_ ya, toots?" As predicted, he let go of the device, instead jabbing his elbows into Clara's sides, in an attempt of getting rid of her. Grunting, but satisfied that her plan worked, the woman released the clown's neck, instead thrusting her arms forward between his raised arms and ribs, trying to perform a Full Nelson. Half succeeding, Clara suddenly felt momentum weightlessness - the man threw her over his shoulder, the woman's back colliding with the floor, face-to-face with the aggressor.

Clara _laughed._

"Seriously? A clown underneath a clown's mask?" Momentarily forgetting her current position, the woman chuckled deep in her throat. The clown's black, bottomless eyes narrowed, tongue darting out to wet his lip.

"You're, uh, _way_ too _happy_ with this situation, _Schopenhauer's_ lover. Are you, uh, _delusional?_ " Not getting anything more to say, the man's chin received a hammer fist from underneath with the back of the hand, forcing his head to turn upwards. Meanwhile, Clara stood up, just in time to duck a fist from the right. From this crouched position, she dived forward, colliding with the man's torso, hugging him tightly, except not with love and admiration, but rather in a death grip, forcing air out from his lungs. Now it was the clown's turn to grunt, trying to keep both his own and the additional hundred and forty-something pounds upright. To be on the ground was dangerous, and he knew well that the majority of times a street fight without rules ends the moment when one falls. Therefore, digging his heels into the ground, the man used his own force to counterbalance his opponent's weight. Like two sumo wrestlers, they grunted and growled, trying to push one another, not really doing much damage.

But the clown wasn't stupid. Changing her position, Clara's eyes darted towards a large wall clock, mentally debating with herself how long will it take for police to come. It _has to_ come, right? Returning her steely gaze, she noticed the man's eyes glued to the same spot that hers were a moment ago. Narrowing his eyes once more, licking his lips, realization showed in the bottomless holes. "Someone's going to be late. More time for Nietzsche, perhaps you will find another, more inspirational quote." Grinning, Clara performed a sided push, relieving the force, but tugging the man's body sideways, so his own weight would make him stumble. Except, what she didn't expect was that the clown wouldn't release her when falling. Usually, the ones she spared with would lose their grip, using their hands to soften collision with the ground. What this man did was both extremely stupid and, the woman had to admit, rather cunning. Due to his enormous strength, they did a 180-degree turn, him being on the bottom, woman collapsing on top. A high possibility of organ damage or at least broken ribs didn't matter to the clown, apparently, as the priority was not to release Clara from his grip, putting her in a vulnerable, nearly defenceless position.

Sirens could be heard somewhere in the background. The woman knew that the police would be here at any moment, and so did the clown. So he did something that Clara wasn't expecting. "Toots, it's been a, uh, _pleasure_ meeting you." Suddenly, a sharp pain appeared in her oblique, making the woman crouch. The sneaky man revealed a knife from his pocket, stabbing, not deep enough to cause mortal damage, but to slow her down. Pushing the woman off of him, the clown scrambled on his feet, rushing towards a bus with all the money inside. With a last glance, he closed the door. School vehicle moved, the aggressor disappearing in a long line of similar cars.

Clara lost him. That bloody creature went off, leaving this mess behind. Slowly standing up, the woman clutched her wounded side, running towards the main exit - the one that she used at the beginning when coming inside. Police cars started parking next to a huge hole in the wall where the bus was, not caring about the main entrance. This is how she escaped, crossing the street, surprisingly void of any moving cars, and scrambling inside her Mustang. The first thing to do was to put pressure on the stab, disallowing blood to drip freely. Furthermore, Clara didn't want any stains on the seat. It took a lot of time and professional equipment to clean blood from the leather. Ripping her shirt, the woman made a temporary bandage, securing it with a military knot. Calm breaths came in and out from her nose. She was used to similar situations, so panic didn't occur now. Starting her car, Clara reversed, careful not to disturb the traffic, and drove home. She will call and announce herself sick. That's what her plan was. The woman couldn't take care of others when her own body was flawed. Besides, that tear needed serious attention. Who knows what else that clown had stabbed before, and she doubted whether he actually cleaned his sharp tool afterwards.

To silence her own low, occasional grunts, prohibit them to reach her ears, Clara turned on the radio. Immediately, a song of her liking started playing, matching the woman's mood. With music on, Clara could concentrate easier, the pain dulling to slight ache. _'You... turned and you ran, oh yeah, oh, slipped... right from my hand.'_ Fueling her anger, but at the same time allowing thoughts to run freely.

It took a good twenty minutes to reach the house. Stepping out and inside, Clara went straight to the bathroom where her first aid kit and much more was. Cutting the knot, she slowly peeled the fabric off, exposing an ugly-looking, jagged stab. Her previous assumptions proved to be correct. The wound was not deep, hardly damaging anything on the inside, except ripping muscle. "Now I will have one more valuable specimen in my collection." Amusement could be heard in her voice, careful, long fingers tapping ethanol-based solution on the wound. It hurt, utterly abused her nociceptors, except it didn't impel much of a reaction in her stony expression. "At least the idiotic manager is still alive. Of course, if the clown didn't come back to finish his work, or he hadn't bled to death." Putting on a clean bandage, Clara cleaned the mess, throwing out the bloodied shirt and muttering something about the need to wash her coat.

Calling the hospital, she informed them about her imaginary cold in the middle of summer, lowering already deep voice to the point of vocal fry. Clara would've grinned at this successful attempt of becoming a rock singer, if not the actual gruffness of her mood. Tea. She needed some tea. A drink, and some time to think. Mindlessly, the woman turned on the TV in her living room, leaving it with an aim of brewing a cup of expensive green tea. Since the kitchen was partly connected with her living room, no walls in between, Clara could hear everything that was said. _"A few hours ago, a Central Bank robbery was executed by a man who calls himself 'The Joker'. Five people were found dead, with clown masks on their faces, bank manager seriously injured."_ With the speed of light, completely forgetting her tea, Clara scooted from behind the bar. On the screen, a picture of the very same man was exposed, with a question 'Have you seen this man?' underneath. _"Currently, this is the fifth bank that was robbed by the man under the same alias. Police forces with the help of Batman are currently running an investigation on..."_

Clara stood there, frozen, steely eyes locked on a disfigured face in front of her. What she previously believed to be a simple warpaint, dragged into a pattern of a huge, smudged smile, the woman now realized was actually a pair of scars. A long time ago, she had seen this sort of macabre wounds, with a cheerful name of 'Glasgow smile', typically done by British gangs. Although not as serious as this clown's. The doctor guessed that there were some serious complications when healing those rips, disallowing his flesh to close up correctly, which resulted in jagged, uneven scars. "The Joker." Testing, almost tasting the name on her tongue, Clara tilted her head to the right side. "You have a very unique sense of humor."

 _Song of the chapter: Five Finger Death Punch - Blue on Black_


	3. The Game of Mind

"FUCK!"

It was _that_ time of the month. The waxing day. Despite being a part of a bank robbery earlier that day, Clara was still a person of plans, and she followed her routine whenever she could. Being stabbed was definitely not a reason to change her day. Therefore, when evening came, the woman took her torturous tools and began removing every tiny hair on her body, skipping head and face, but attacking everything bellow. Wax was something that ensured a comfortable existence for a relatively long time, thus in Clara's eyes worth the pain that it delivered. Besides, the woman saw such experience as a weird challenge that tested her ability to endure high-pressure situations. In reality, when it came to waxing, it was not really the ripping - physical - part that was scary. It was the mental battle between your logical and instinctual sides, one reasoning to just _do it_ , another encouraging you to run. 'To rip, or not to rip?', a question that had the same weight as Hamlet's philosophism in the tragedy, when he debated with himself whether to fight the injustice or commit suicide and end the sorrow of his heart. During moments like this, global questions decrease to the size of an average person's problems, and those problems become more important than wars and the fate of thousands.

Nevertheless, Clara still felt a relief when the last stripe was gone. "One more session is done, only around seven hundred left to do." _If only she happened to live another sixty years._ Relaxed, she took a long shower, cleaning any possible remaining of the sticky substance. The woman hissed as the hot water hit newly bared, sensitive areas, and immediately lowered the heat. "No need for another emergency."

Stepping out and drying herself, only a black robe on her shoulders, Clara wandered towards the darkened living room, the only source of light being a lit fireplace. She preferred it this way - the less artificial light, the higher melatonin production occurs. Sleep was definitely something of great use for her now, so it was a tactical move to stimulate the release of sleep hormone. Due to the lack of light, Clara could clearly see Batman sign in the night sky. "Someone's having some serious trouble, huh?"

When it came to the topic of Batman, she was not particularly intrigued by this stupidly heroic man. The woman wondered how well-pronounced Narcissistic Personality Disorder was inside this creature, one and only. Living in Gotham, it was impossible to ignore what was happening inside. Copycats were something that the Batman despised as much as criminals, apparently. The only force that could control those thugs, mobsters and thieves, had to be him. And it was fine with Clara, as long as it didn't involve her. Men could run around dressed in bat suits, Halloween costumes, hidden behind clown's makeup.

The night matured, but for some reasons Clara's inner clock decided to protest against sleep, mind too focused on analyzing Gotham's Dark Knight's potential personality crisis, and then another man's behaviour. Yes, the clown, Joker, was still on her mind, permanently implemented there together with her throbbing wound. Like a teenage girl, she lost her sleep over a man with warpaint and a disfigured face. Except, instead of drooling over the mental picture of him, her brains vigorously painted various scenarios of him being carved up.

In fact, Clara was rather familiar with the Glasgow smile. She was not Scottish, from where the wound originated, but still, the surgeon had to stitch up a fair amount of them. In her opinion, the Glasgow smile was one of the most macabre ways of hurting someone. Gangs would often use it on others as a warning not to mess with them, and the smile typically was made with cut-throat razors, utility-knifes, glass or bottles. Something dull enough to prolong the torture. The victim would often open the wound even further while screaming, tearing his own cheek in half. Later, English street gangs followed Glasgow's street crooks' example, and the vile torture technique spread outside Scottland. This was especially popular among the Chelsea Headhunters, a London-based hooligan firm, therefore such a smile in England got a name of 'Chelsea Grin'.

If the man had even a trace of an accent, Clara would consider him being a victim of a Brittish gang. Unfortunately, things wouldn't go exactly into correct places. He could have travelled and gotten into an accident. Or, he might have inflicted the wounds himself, perhaps. The man didn't seem to have much self-preservation, based on the fact of how he fell to the floor with her weight on top, risking to break his ribs or crush vital organs. Or... A number of possibilities could be considered, neither one of them confirmed or based on facts.

It didn't take too long for sunrise to come, as it was the middle of summer, nights short and vivid with life. Clara was no stranger to sleepless periods, and just like a seasoned warrior, despite not being in the battlefield for a long time, would still know how to survive in the eye of the storm, the woman knew how to endure lack of sleep, even when her now comfortable environment ensured the potential fulfilment of her desires. She was... Ready to jump, and run, and fight, and only the sky was her limit. The re-introduced stress was something of great usage, if not abused too much.

The silence was disturbed by her phone, vibrating somewhere in the background. Narrowing her eyes, surprised by an early caller, Clara slowly wandered towards the device. An unknown number was written on the screen. "Yes?"

"Clara?" A moment passed by, the woman's brains analyzing this slightly muffled voice in an attempt to recognize its owner. A few seconds later, her rigid posture relaxed. She knew who the mysterious caller was.

"Jonathan."

Silence followed the said-aloud name. When the man spoke next, slight amusement laced his velvety tone. "Don't sleep much?"

"It's already bright outside."

"You're right. But I suspected you'd still be asleep for a few hours more."

"It's already four A.M., Jonathan. I wake up at five, so I'm not too far ahead of my schedule. Besides, why would you call if you knew I was asleep?"

"I had my hopes." She could detect mirth in his voice. The man was probably smirking, that characteristic tight-lipped smile on his face. After so many years, Clara developed an ability to guess Jonathan's mood just from the way he constructed his sentences.

"Of what use can I be to you, Scarecrow?" As much as she enjoyed intellectually stimulating conversations with the other doctor, Clara knew that people usually don't call at four in the morning without a serious reason.

"Stitches. I need you to stitch me up."

This was probably the main reason why these two people could be on such good terms with each other. They both knew when to cut the pleasantries short, or when to fall silent so to not provoke the other. Certain disadvantages and awkwardness that came with extremely high intellect and introverted nature could be avoided when both-sided understanding occurred. In this case, two doctors definitely shared a weird bond.

"Mhm. I suppose it's me who has to come?"

"I'd like you to. Preferably sooner than later. I'd rather not lose my arm, after all the trouble I endured hacking into the system just to get your number." Here, the mirth again. After a while, once you get a grip on one's subtle humour, you can't undo the newly-found insight. "Actually, I was rather surprised you didn't announce about your whereabouts earlier. Slightly offended, even, to hear about my long-lost friend from a secondary source."

"I was busy. Send me your location, Jonathan, and I will try my best to reach you. Hopefully, your new apartment is nothing like the previous one?"

Chuckling lightly, he ensured that his house is so much better than before. And Clara believed him, mainly because it would be hard to imagine anything worse than the hole that he previously lived in. A tunnel, maze-like corridors, with crows and ravens, and street cats lurking around. The apartment itself was not bad, but first, to admire its comfortableness, you had to reach it.

Not wasting any time, the woman searched for her medical tool bag, much more improved than the typical first-aid kit. It contained far too little to actually ensure one's safety. That, and the fact that people tend to misuse its contents. Even in Israel, first-aid kits were far more abundant. Here, in a world of comfort, those little bags became something align to a joke.

Her phone vibrated once more, indicating a green light for her. Looking at the address that Scarecrow sent, Clara groaned. "Seriously? You live on the other side of Gotham?" It will take her almost an hour to reach him, and Clara hoped that his wounds were not that severe. On the other hand, the woman started doubting how real this whole thing was. Jonathan was not stupid to risk his life and call someone from that far away. Which means, the actual reason for his call is probably something else, and the wound, even if it actually existed, became a secondary reason. "He probably created some kind of drug and wants to test it on me." She could still remember the fear gas that he insistently offered her to try, and which, Clara had to admit, helped a lot in the army. It was hard to feel the actual terror of war when you have already faced your personal horrors. Where men had their naturally occurring testosterone-fueled aggression and brainless bravery, she had the experience of facing her fears and knowledge of how to deal with them. When you're able to logically think in high-pressure situations, there's very little left that could still disturb the calm flow of one's mind.

After a while, she got immune to the infamous fear gas. Clara presumed that Crane knew that, although they never discussed it. One day, he just stopped giving her the toxic substance. But that was not the end. They both tried LSD, psilocybin mushrooms, fresh cannabis that he used to grow on a windowsill, tested how these psychedelics may contribute to his patients' conditions. They both were scientists, after all, both-sided agreement bonded these two intellectuals, encouraging to try new, sometimes illegal, but none the less effective things.

It took her only thirty minutes to reach Jonathan's home, far less than originally anticipated. The day was still young, barely any cars outside. Officially Clara was still sick, laying in her bed with tea and sore throat. With no work needed to go to, she had this whole day and weekend for herself. Herself and Scarecrow, keeping in mind that her car was parked right in front of a dark, but clean-looking building. Sighing, the woman stepped out, stretching her muscles, careful not to open the stab wound, which already started to close up. Perhaps the clown actually kept his knives clean, after all, as her skin haven't become infected.

Nearing the only door in sight, Clara knocked, patiently waiting for a response. And she received it, a few seconds later. A man with a tight smile opened the door, tilting his head to one side. "You made it." Humour could be heard in his velvety voice, amused blue eyes meeting cold, annoyed ones. "For a moment I really thought that you will reject my call of help."

"I should have. But I have a kind heart, Jonathan, couldn't allow you to bleed to death." Sarcasm laced her voice while she stepped inside, Scarecrow closing the door behind. Clara's bag hung on her shoulder, indicating the main reason for her visit. Taking the bag off of the woman's shoulder, Crane explained.

"Actually, there _is_ an emergency. I was attacked, and quite severely." Motioning towards a large room, supposedly his living room, he put Clara's bag on a small coffee table. "I could have taken care of it myself, except I wasn't completely sure how to handle this kind of wound. Didn't want to mess anything up." Smiling rather painfully, the man took a seat, unbuttoning his shirt and putting it besides.

Clara had seen both shirtless and completely naked Jonathan before, and not just once. That, and also the fact that she was used to seeing nude body parts had a major effect for her not to stare at Crane's lean, but a rather muscular chest and torso. What held her attention was a weird wound, hardly a stab or a slash. "For God's sake, Jonathan, have you been experimenting with tigers?" Crunching in front of him, she took a good look at the huge bite wound, already turning greenish, but not touching it yet. She hadn't washed her hands and didn't want any impurities from her fingers to get into his blood system. "More like dogs." Murmuring for herself, Clara lifted her misty gaze, resting her eyes on the man's cerulean ones. "Jonathan?"

"I had an... Incident. With Batman and dogs." Clara raised her eyebrow, silently expressing her confusion. Not prying, she didn't say anything. The woman stood up, unzipped the back and put the tools that were needed on the table, first wiping it the construction with alcohol. Then, she washed her hands with antibacterial soap. Smirking, the woman noticed Jonathan wrinkling his nose when a strong smell of menthol hit him. "You, Brits, took too much liking into strong smells."

"I beg your pardon?" It was her who furrowed her eyebrows now, not getting the meaning behind the man's words.

"French royalty used to import expensive perfume into Great Britain for kings and queens. If you have ever smelled the French perfume, you should have noticed that they are typically very strong and long-lasting, like menthol. Such a versatile characteristic. You apply it once, and smell like a huge flower for the rest of the day."

Clara was speechless for a moment. Crouching in front of the man who seemed to stare straight through her, she once more started analyzing his wound, gently caressing the sides of it. "You know, I haven't been at home for more than ten years. I don't remember what the Queen smells like anymore." She started softly wiping, cleaning the bite, feeling Jonathan's muscles twitch underneath her hand. "Your 'Violent Dancing' didn't exactly work against dogs, did it?" Irony coloured her voice, no previous thoughtfulness in sign. Mentioning of his self-made martial art's name immediately annoyed the Scarecrow. "My proposition to teach you some real stuff is still valid." Apparently, it was a sensitive subject for Crane, his incomplete style of martial arts that he insisted on creating, but never actually perfecting to the point of flawlessness.

"What, will you introduce me to Jiu-Jitsu? Taekwondo? Or that funny Israeli Karate that you're such a big proponent of?" He spat these words, abruptly close to being angry, trying to rip his arm from Clara's fingers. It was a sensitive subject indeed.

" _Calm down._ " Using that enormous strength of hers that was perfected through blood and sweat, the woman forced him back, gripping Crane's arm tightly. Dagger-like look was sent her way, and although his body went rigid, she could tell that the man was still furious. Steely gaze met the blue flames, fighting for dominance, without any intention to submit. After a few seconds, Clara picked up the needle and pierced Jonathan's skin without any mercy. Hissing in pain, the man showed his teeth, sending one more murderous glare towards the woman between his knees.

"I swear, one day I will end your pathetic life, Clara."

"Sure. But first I suggest learning some Krav Maga. Will keep you safe from animal attacks." For a few minutes, she worked in silence, without a word muttered. But then her mind drifted towards the previous day once more. "You know, I met your friend."

"My... Friend?"

"Mhm. The clown."

"You've met the Joker?" Nodding again, Clara finished stitching the man underneath her, with a light hand cleaning now closed wound.

"I need to give you a vaccine against rabies. A normal dog should not attack a larger opponent."

"There were three rottweilers."

"Then you should feel lucky enough to go away relatively untouched. Those dogs are bred to kill." Now she was cleaning the top of Scarecrow's arm, his skin above the deltoid muscle. "Don't move, Jonathan." Thriving a needle full of golden liquid inside, she slowly injected the substance. "I could easily give you liquid arsenic, and you wouldn't know until it was too late."

"Well, I trust you." Seeing Clara's smirk grow, he quickly added. "To some extent." Clearing his throat, Crane continued with their previous topic. "Be careful with the Joker. He is a mad dog, too. A place in Arkham is guaranteed for him without a doubt."

"Asylum? Shouldn't it be, well, jail? Or is every terrorist now a madman?"

"Oh, but he is mad, Clara. The man shows clear signs of psychopathic behaviour."

"How could you tell he's a psychopath? Not a perfectly sane person, or not even a sociopath?" Before Scarecrow could interfere, she continued, abruptly standing up. The used needle was placed on top of the table, already forgotten. "The Joker shows a great level of recklessness and lack of empathy, indeed, but he also _plans_. A crazy one would act on instinct. Arkham is hardly where the clown belongs." Pacing back and forth now, the woman could feel Jonathan's intense, clear eyes following her gracious movements. "During the robbery, that creature positioned himself just in the right place to avoid colliding with a bus. His friend wasn't so lucky, which was also planned. You know, saving Earth, saving bullets." Sarcasm coloured Clara's voice, British accent becoming continuously more pronounced. Amused, Crane noticed her ripping more and more 'r' from her words, 'l' softening as Clara's tongue was being placed closer to the back of her throat, ruining the false charade of her heritage, her roots. "Or just the basic game theory." Suddenly, the woman's eyes widened, she stopped in her track, slowly turning towards the seated man who moved a fraction, just to reach the syringe. "Jonathan." Ensuring that she had his unwavering attention now, Clara lowered herself in front of him, between Crane's legs - a spot that the woman seemingly liked, although Scarecrow knew quite well it was not for the reason that _he_ might have enjoyed. It was a strategical spot, near his unprotected crotch and abdomen. "The Joker _is_ using game theory. When you think about it, all of his goons were found dead. What did he do, run around shooting every each of them, all in different locations? No, the clown simply told them to kill their own partner, until only one was left, which, of course, was shot by the 'senior pirate' himself." Clara's grey eyes were lit by a weird fire, which Jonathan had noticed only a few times before. He could almost see metaphorical screws working their magic, forcing the analytical brain to use a few extra percent of their potential abilities.

"So he's not one of my patients, but an unacknowledged genius then?" Doctor Crane had to admit, he was impressed by another doctor's observation. The syringe was held in his hand, rolled and moved between gracious fingers.

"More like a psychotic, but brilliant circus artist." An honest grin tore through her lips, for the first time in months, probably, exposing a row of white, straight teeth with sharp rudiments of canines. Clara's hands were placed on top of Jonathan's knees, gently massaging the bony cap underneath, feeling it's hollowness on the sides. This was another habit of her that the man was quite familiar with. Clara was not exactly a creature which was fond of close contact, but when the woman had a mental battle with herself, or just thought about something intensely, and someone happened to be close enough, the surgeon would pick a part of his body and mindlessly analyze its anatomy. A few times Crane asked her about this almost tick-like habit, and not receiving a clear answer, he created his own conclusion.

"It's already nine o'clock." A husky voice stated, attracting the man's attention once more.

"So?"

"I came at five."

"It's hardly a secret that time goes by quicker when we're together." Light mirth could be felt in Jonathan's velvety voice. "Did you know that you saved Gambol's grandma?"

"Did I?"

"That's what I've heard. Liver damage, anything familiar?"

Remembering the surgery, still feeling the weight of heavy organ in her hands, Clara smirked slightly, only one corner lifting up. "Very."

 _Song of the chapter: System Of A Down - Aerials_


	4. The Grudge

"Remember what I have said."

It was way past noon when Clara finally exited the Scarecrow's apartment. They talked, and they played, and they discussed how to apply placebo and therefore save the government's money on pills. It would be much cheaper to use a placebo - sugar, glycerol, some distilled water instead of the real stuff. Both doctors have acknowledged a few incidents in the past where patients experienced improvements without actual medicine, only believing that they got something that is supposed to help. Furthermore, it was legal. What else would one call homoeopathic drugs other than a placebo? Above a board of chess, there was room for a variety of topics to be discussed. The Joker got his honourable place and time, too. Crane updated, informed Clara on what he knew about that man, which, bearing in mind that it was the perspicacious doctor she was talking with, was surprisingly little.

Moving towards her car, the woman mused on her weekend plans. Forget the exploration of the city. She wanted some time alone, as Jonathan used up the remainings of her reserves of time for human interaction. Humorously, when Clara was younger, she used to imagine her patience's resources as this weird hourglass. Every time when the woman encountered a social interaction, she felt a mental tickling of sand. When it was all down, Clara would go to a quiet place and 'refill' that clock. Loneliness in the most direct meaning was her way of recharging.

Nearing the Mustang, Clara's sixth sense was silent. She didn't see a man exiting an underground kitchen. A man, with a purple suit full of small, self-made bombs, curiously following her retreat with dark, bottomless eyes. Jonathan lived next to a quiet, unpopular restaurant which lacked its customers due to the bad location. Convenient for Crane who hated cooking, but not prestigious enough for the so-called royalty of Gotham, powerful people who ruled this city. It was partly their own fault that at some point in Gotham's history, due to the lack of movement nearby, the restaurant became somewhat popular among criminals. And while Clara had her afternoon tea and games with the psychology professor, the Joker had his own trip to the kitchens, attending criminals' group therapy session. But now, when his appearance was made, threats and propositions presented, he had all the time in the world. Like a lucky cat, unnoticed by the unaware canary, with hungry orbs, the clown eyed a metaphorical open door of the cage. In reality, it was the turned back of an unaware woman and her lack of knowing what's behind. He eyed the sharp curve of his victim's spine, outstretched, seemingly strong torso, hidden by a long, dark coat which was not able to hide the unusually powerful build of this weird woman. That, and the fact that the Joker had a physical reminder of her fist and shoulder in a form of severe bruises, marking his skin. The man followed her movements closely, memorizing the car's numbers. "Little, uh, _assassin,_ whatcha doin' _here?_ " Murmuring underneath his breath, silently so he wouldn't spoil the advantage of woman's cluelessness about the Joker's whereabouts, the man experienced a hesitation inside his head. He could follow her now, strangle from behind, perhaps crack open her head, give a concussion or knock out so he could murder her later, adorn with a _smile_ which her wintry face _lacked_ , and push the dead body from the roof. "No, it's a, uh, _special_ method for the _fake_ Bat." Or, the Joker could track her location, her house through the car numbers that should be registered, tied with the name of the person who owned it and pay a short visit at night. "Short and _pain_ less-s." Grinning, the man remained where he was, hooded eyes displaying unhidden excitement. Licking his lips, he stood up, seeing the dark Mustang speeding down the road. The Joker made his way towards the black van. Inside his own vehicle, he took a phone from the glove compartment, dialling a number that he had memorized a long time ago. " _Hello_ -o?" With his nasal, comic voice, the man asked to find the location of his soon-to-be victim, reversing from a hidden spot that the van was parked in and aimlessly driving down the street. He waited for a few minutes, drumming his fingers on the wheel, like a child on a day before Christmas, knowing well that the presents will arrive so fucking soon.

For Clara, it did take much longer to reach her house this time, as traffic increased together with the maturing day. People rushed towards their own destinations, ignoring basic civility and politeness. So much of a driver's etiquette, huh? The woman didn't complain though. Staying in traffic jams, she had enough time to construct the upcoming week. Using her phone, Clara arranged a schedule until Wednesday, keeping an eye on possible emergencies. Finally, she did a mental look-over of what her grocery list may consist of for the whole following week. Proteins, lots of proteins, just like always. Chicken breast, around a kilogram of it. Perhaps some lean steak that she would pan-fry, get a nice sear, but keep it rare. Also, vegetables. She ran out of red bell peppers yesterday, and mushrooms are left only a few, Clara needed those, too. She might want some asparagus, a natural diuretic, as she noticed some water retention due to the inflammation in her whole body. The stab wound and stress didn't go unnoticed.

Suddenly, almost thoughtlessly, the woman changed her direction. Clara knew what she needed. A pushing-to-the-limits sparring session. Driving towards her mentor's mansion, the woman's thoughts were already consumed by excitement. The electricity that was directed towards the upcoming battle kept her concentration on the crowded road. Additionally, like a cherry on a cake, his mansion was located far nearer Gotham's centre than her own, which means, if Clara is lucky enough, she won't need to stay on the road during the peak hours. Usually, their sessions lasted from two to even four hours if they got consumed in technicalities of Krav Maga or Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. Around that time when they're finished, streets should be already cleared, at least a little.

Clara reached a closed gate to a huge white house in ten minutes. She pressed a button, located next to speakers, and patiently waited until the dungeon-deep Lucius's voice answered.

"My, my, have I forgotten to note today's session in my planner?"

"It would mean that your memory is getting unstable. Not exactly the most pleasant scenario, right?"

Silence followed her teasing, the only non-verbal answer being slow sliding of the front gate, allowing Clara to drive inside. Smiling slightly to herself, she parked her black car next to the entrance, already spotting the African-American man standing on top of a long flight of stairs, meeting his guest. Lucius's silver hair glinted in the bright sunlight, creating an illusional halo. "Miss my company already, Doc?"

"If your company and skills were two separate things, I would definitely choose your skills."

Lifting one eyebrow, Lucius double checked the woman in front of him. "Well, I have no intentions on giving my abilities a separate identity yet, so for now, I'm afraid, you will have to keep up with my company." Motioning towards the door, he asked. "Would you like some tea? Chocolate? So my skills could prepare mentally. I definitely need some time for that." Not waiting for an answer, Lucius span around and walked into the large mansion. The only thing that was left for the woman was to follow him.

"Did you see yesterday's news?"

"I did. Five banks in a row, that's a quick pace. Was it what pissed you off for two days?" The question threw her out of balance. Lucius Fox was surely an observant man, but Clara didn't expect him to know her mood that well.

"To some extent, yes."

"So in your language, it means a 'no', Doc?" Smiling, white teeth contrasting sharply with his dark skin, the man opened a large glass door to the kitchen. Immediately, smell of spices and herbs surrounded her, provoking Clara's sharp sense of smell. "Care to join me for lunch, not just tea?"

"Actually, my intentions were to kick your ass, Lucius, not have a meal with you." Sticking her nose in the air and taking a deep breath, she added. "On the other hand, it's not every day that I have gorgeous lamb. What did you marinate it in? Red wine?"

"You should be a chef, not a surgeon, Clara." Lucius's smile grew even wider, appreciating the woman's skills with distinguishing smells and aromas. "There's some rosemary, too."

Nodding, she approved the man's choice of ingredients. "Nice. Alcohol will tenderize the meat, and rosemary will provide some additional flavour and also antioxidants against free radicals that might be released while searing it in high heat."

Lucius rolled his brown eyes, dismissing Clara's lecture-like educational speech. "It's already time to cook the meat. Please, rinse and chop those vegetables." He motioned towards a large, marble sink. "We will put them in the oven for a delicious roast, should go well with lamb. What do you think, Doc?"

"I think you're distracting me from my actual purpose of coming here, Fox."

"My, my, but that's exactly what I'm doing." Lucius let out a small laugh, mirth reaching his warm eyes.

Clara made her way towards the sink and started cleaning carrots, orange and purple, and pieces of colourful cauliflowers. Beautiful purple mixed with green, and white, creating an edible rainbow. "Shouldn't you be at Wayne's right now?"

"I suppose not. And shouldn't you be at the hospital? Doc?"

"Took a day off. Have some... Stuff to do." A tight smile made it's way on her chapped lips, not giving away anything else. "Done. Should I put them in the oven right now, or first sear the meat, and then put it together so the juices would be absorbed?"

"We shouldn't waste the good stuff, right?"

"I wouldn't. Not sure about you."

They ended up exchanging a few more bite-like comments, friendly and lighthearted enough not to sting. When you had business with Clara, a sharp tongue was always involved, and one could either adopt a similar manner of talking or accept her remarks as an insult.

Clara met Lucius, or Lucius found Clara a few years ago when she was back for a few weeks. A mission in Vietnam had just ended. Much-needed rest time in Paris for the surgeon, a business trip for Lucius Fox. He approached a lonely woman, who stood watching a street artist painting laughing girls. Twins, judged from their alikeness. A conversation between them started, bonding two outsiders. Similar fields of interest and views. A bond that formed between them kept the surgeon and the man connected throughout the years. Hardly a friendship, the connection between the strangers remained nameless, yet long-lasting and strong. A platonic marriage made in heaven. It was Lucius who gave Clara the idea of moving to Gotham in the first place.

After twenty minutes, the host was carving large pieces of tender lamb and putting them into porcelain plates, whilst Clara scrubbed tin-plate to get vegetables off of it. They ended up with a simple balsamic vinegar-olive oil based sauce on top, drizzling only a tiny amount so it wouldn't suppress subtle flavours of lamb and caramelized vegetables. No small talk was made, as Clara clearly preferred eating in silence. They both had something to think about. The woman toyed with the idea of cleaning the whole house and sorting out her old items, whilst Lucius pondered how to improve Batman's armour. Neither of them knew anything about each another's thoughts, as Clara had no idea about Lucius's involvement with Gotham's hero, and Fox had no clue about what could be hidden in the woman's closet. Enjoying the food, that was the only thing that they did in unison. Just like old times.

"What about that sparring, Doc? Will you still be up for it, after all this food?" The African-American man finally broke the silence, getting Clara's unwavering attention and a slow smirk stretching her sharp features. The woman's answer was a slow rise from the chair. If only did the poor lamb know what kind of actions his pieces would fuel, he might have run to the hills if it wouldn't be too late.

The only thing that Clara had a sensation for after the third hour of ruthless kicks and punches was a drugged-like euphoric state. They both smelled like pigs, bruises already forming, bones unshattered and in the correct places, but muscles sore and tight. Nevertheless, it was exactly what she needed. Physical pain provided mental clarity, and whilst it hurt like a furious cat clawing at her skin, the mental silence that came was definitely worth it.

As they said their goodbyes and Clara finally drove home, just as she predicted, roads were relatively quiet, only a few vehicles here and there. The majority of people chose to spend their night at restaurants, or at home with family, not on the road. But Clara was not one of the majority, and her choice of Friday night's opening and ending consisted of aimless driving through the city. It was already dark outside, and Gotham showed it's true beauty with lights and colours.

But just like everything, this short trip had to end sometime. As the night matured, Clara got closer and closer to her own home. Nearing the driving in, she almost drove into a black van that was parked next to her neighbour's fence. "Fuck!" Throwing herself on the brakes, she managed to avoid the collision. "Who the hell leaves a car in the middle of the street?" Murmuring incoherent curses underneath her breath, Clara manoeuvred towards her own house, with the ease and grace of a seasoned, experienced driver, stepping outside immediately. "Bloody kids, five minutes after passing their driving tests, and already on the road, causing car accidents." The woman had already reached her front door when she abruptly stopped and turned around with curiosity. Now, when she thought about it, the black van seemed somewhat familiar. Unintentionally admiring the sleek vehicle, Clara remembered seeing it a few days ago. Next to her Mustang, any car would feel ashamed of its looks, but as a stand-alone, she had to admit, it was an elegant machine. Nevertheless, her suspicion increased with every passing second, nostrils flaring. Clara couldn't think of anybody nearby who possessed such a car, and she trusted her gut feeling quite well. The woman hadn't lost her abilities to observe the surroundings, and, unless somebody bought it today, this was not where the van belonged. After a moment of staring at the van, she turned once more, unlocking door silently, stepping inside. Despite it being pitch black, Clara skipped the light switch. Her eyesight adapted to the dark immediately, numerous similar situations from past taking their places in her mind, preparing an already beaten-up and tired body for something upcoming.

Clara listened. The only sound was her own slow, steady breathing. Somewhere deep in the forest nearby an owl hooted, the nocturnal bird probably searching for his prey. And then, out of nowhere, her body went rigid.

Pain.

A sharp pain went through Clara's skull, sending her down where she collided with the wooden floor painfully. The woman became still, limp and immobile, closing her eyes and trying to create an illusion of a knocked-out person. Almost immediately she felt two hands on her shoulders, gently shaking the whole body. Not getting any physical response, somebody - a man - crouched over Clara, bringing his head down, close to the side of her face. A smell of gasoline and gunpowder and leather reached the woman's nose, bringing back the shadow of her time overseas. This is how war and chaos that it created smelled like. _He's listening. He's listening to my breathing._

"Dea- _d_?" A comic, nasal voice, barely above a whisper, cut through the silent darkness, giving away her attacker's identity.

"How about alive?" Clara's own hoarse timbre followed the clown's question, her eyes snapping open, head moving up in an attempt of hitting the Joker in the face with the backbone of the skull. The Joker was quick to get back on his feet, gracefully avoiding the woman's attack. Rolling forward, Clara tried to create enough distance to safely stand up and face the man. She had one single advantage of knowing the house much better than the attacker, therefore being able to orient quite well in the darkness. The woman heard him hitting something, silently hissing in pain.

"Uh, little _assassin_ , where did ya _go_ -o? _Hello_ -o? Anybody's home?" Giggling to himself, the Joker started tapping the wall, in search of the light switch. "Let there be ligh _-t._ I need some light."

Suddenly, the whole hallway was lit with bright light, blinding the man for a millisecond. When he regained his vision again, an old-fashioned Enfield No. 2 was pointed at him, and furious grey eyes bore into his own bottomless ones. "How the fuck have you managed to break in?"

Eyeing the revolver in his opponent's hand, the Joker slowly moved an inch closer. "You, uh, you have a _very_ comfortable attic. Suitable for, uh,late night visits." Grinning, the clown slowly put one hand in the pocket of his suit, retreating a...

"Is this... A potato peeler?" Confusion made itself evident of Clara's face, her eyes glued to the kitchen utensil.

"It _is_." Quickly, the Joker threw his hand forward, the peeler flying towards Clara's face. To avoid a damaging impact, she had to duck, at the same time losing her position and aim. Lunging at her, the clown aimed for the gun in Clara's hand. "Little _assassins_ shouldn't play with _guns_." Low chuckles escaped his mouth, tongue darting to lick scarred lower lip as he snatched the revolver, aiming it at its previous master.

"And clown's place is not in the kitchen among potatoes either."

"Careful 'ere with, uh, _names_. You don't wanna give me a _reason_ to cut something _writhing_ out of your mouth."

"Should I already be scared?"

"I'm a man of my _word._ " Now the Joker started laughing maniacally, stretching his scars. Clara stopped moving, staring at those poorly closed wounds. The clown's grin slowly died, hooded eyes narrowing. "Whatcha starin' a-t?" Locking steely gaze with those bottomless orbs, the woman lifted one eyebrow as if asking what he had in mind. "You, uh, you _stare_. It's _rude_ to stare, y'know."

"I might be fascinated by the colour of your hair. Been thinking about changing mine. Do you think green would suit me?"

The Joker stood still, head tilted to the side. Was he actually... Thinking about whether or not the colour would fit her? The man's eyes moved, taking in Clara's dark, straight locks as if considering the possibility of turning it green. " _No_ -o. It would _dull_ your _eyes_ -s. Pick another one." A bored expression made its way on his face, licking his lips the man silently judged her reaction. He lowered the gun, now simply twirling it between his gloved fingers.

It was time for Clara to narrow her eyes, seeing such a relaxed composure of this insolent intruder. "Oh, for fuck's sake." Bypassing the anarchist in her hall, she walked towards the kitchen, the whole time feeling the abysses following her. "When you exit, don't leave the door open. I don't want any more guests turning up this late." But in the end, Clara was just too tired to actually care. The day has finally caught up with her exhausted body, blunting the usually sharp mind. The woman reached her destination, taking a glass and filling it with water which she downed in an attempt to soothe gluttonous thirst.

"You, uh, _should_ have been dea- _d_." Clara turned around, leaning against the countertop. The Joker followed the woman, not her commands. Standing in the doorway, he didn't look extremely out of place, surprisingly. With the purple suit, and tie, and his whole attire, slightly hunched forward, and also her Enfield, which was still being played with in his hand, the man naturally demanded everyone's attention. A dark grey wall behind him provided an imaginary stage for the clown, with only one spectator to watch his performance. "I came to _kill_. But you just keep _destroying_ my day by doin' the _opposite_ , y'know." His tongue darted out, wetting lower lip, twirling around a tiny scar there. The clown knew that she was watching, steely gaze following his tongue's path, and it annoyed him a little. "Sto- _p starin'_."

Clara fulfilled the Joker's request by lifting her eyes, meeting his own. "Well, I'm sorry that I don't meet your expectations. I have a little tendency of my own to do exactly the opposite of what others demand." Sarcasm was evident in her tone, one eyebrow unintentionally lifted. "By the way, may I know why exactly my death is desired by Your Excellency?"

The Joker started slowly moving forward, near the woman. "I _feel,_ " Now he was right in front of her, noses almost touching. "no, I hol- _d_ ," One hand sneaked around the back of Clara's neck. She heard a light shuffling, and instead of her revolver, the clown brought a knife next to her mouth. "a, uh, _grudge_ against ya." Despite being a tall person herself, the woman had to lift her eyes up a little to keep contact with this six-feet-something clown, bottomless depths instead of eyes staring down at her. She remembered reading somewhere that if you stare into the abyss long enough, the abyss will also gaze at you. _Nietzsche._ It was Nietzsche who said that, and the irony of this clown's behaviour, the coincidence of conformity between the man and the philosopher which he quoted with a slight alter the first time, completely changing the whole meaning of that inspirational sentence, cracked her serious demeanour. "Little _assassin_ , why're _laughin'_?"

"Hormonal changes. Make me overly emotional." Smirking, Clara noticed his gaze drifting lower, towards her abdomen.

"Are you, uh, _pregnant_?"

"Would you believe me if I said yes?"

" _No._ "

"Then no, I'm not."

"Then _why_ 're _smilin_ '?" Annoyance was clearly evident in Joker's voice, that nasal sound going up, becoming almost whine-like.

"Well, aren't clowns supposed to bring a smile to one's face?" Clara knew she was walking on edge of the blade, a tiny line between keeping his interest and angering to the point where he cuts her throat open. The woman got even closer to his face until the man's breath could be felt on her lips, so she could whisper, creating an environment of intimacy. "My happiness was not found by default but achievedas the result of hard work. _Your_ hard work of trying to kill me just for one," Turning her face to the side, Clara's lips almost touched the clown's scars. "little," She could feel cold metal grazing the side of her jaw instead of cheek now. "punch." With her last word, the woman lifted her knee, hitting the Joker in the groin, at the same time gripping his shoulder tightly with one hand, using another one to grab his armoured limb. As she stepped to the right tugging it, Clara pushed his shoulder to the left, making the clown lose his balance and hit the countertop. The woman released him completely, simply watching the Joker crouch with his back turned to her, releasing an occasional chuckle. It took a few minutes for the man to stand up. He turned around, something - amusement - glinting in those dark orbs.

"Such a, uh, _cruel_ assassin you _are,_ toots."

"Sometimes justice requires cruelty, clown." The annoyance was there once more, clearly written on his face. The man licked his lips, a tick-like habit that he had. Clara sat down on a chair, closing her aching eyes. "Why are you presenting yourself as a clown if you don't like when I point it out?" Silence followed Clara's question. She remained like this for a few more moments, when a gentle gust of air hit her in the face. Snapping them open, the woman acknowledged Joker's face in front of her own, that tiny whiff being his breath. Unimpressed, Clara stared into his eyes, waiting for some kind of movement. A blink, tiny wavering, anything. But they bore into her own steely ones as if exposing something deep within.

"Because I _already_ have a _smile_ to go with it." Turning around, the Joker stalked towards the exit, the same hunch evident in his posture. "Don't think I have forgotten my, uh, _grudge_ , little assassin, or that you're _forgiven_." After a moment, the woman heard a slam. The clown closed her front door, leaving Clara in complete and utter silence. Soon, a car somewhere nearby started rumbling, the sound weakening with every passing second. The Joker was gone.

"That fucker stole my revolver."

 _Song of the chapter: Tool - 10000 Days (Wings Part 2 )_


	5. The Warrior

"Doctor Moore, you have thirty minutes to prepare for Miranda D.'s surgery. Ovarian cancer, stage two, operating room number four."

"Hmm."

"Doctor Moore? Did you hear me?"

"No." The woman's back straightened, she spun around on a rolling chair, facing the greying nurse. "I mean, I did."

"Bad timing, Doctor?" The nurse smiled kindly, her ageing face projecting calmness and serenity. The lines that ran through it, together with a white coat, gave the woman an aura of something indescribable. Sacrifice and utter devotion, perhaps.

"Not at all. I'm just... Constructing." Clara motioned towards her desk, indicating the half-finished house of cards, sitting proudly on a bed of papers, so the cards wouldn't slide on the sleek wood. "I will be there in no time."

The nurse nodded, leaving this bright, large room that belonged to the surgeon. Alone now, Clara turned around once more, returning to her project. She had found a deck of cards yesterday, among various other puzzles and games which were hidden in a large box. When coming to Gotham and occupying the secluded house with barely few neighbours nearby, Clara had left the majority of her things untouched, not bothering to unpack stuff that was not of everyday usage. But yesterday, the woman finally acknowledged the pile of boxes in one of the rooms. And not exactly with intentions of making the house a little homier. Clara actually needed another gun nearby, as the Joker took her revolver. Since the collection of guns and other various weapons was put in a few boxes, and there were many similar ones, the woman had no choice but to check all of them, at the same time sorting the stuff inside and putting it in their places. As a secondary result, the house, previously minimal and somewhat void of any signs that would indicate an actual human being living inside, developed an environment of an extremely weird occupant. Someone staying inside long-term, nevertheless. Clara dedicated a whole room for her weapon collection, which she cleaned and took proper care of before putting in places - polished the blades from dust and potential dirt, wiped off any buildup of carbon in pistols and revolvers, allowed various solvents to sit long enough to loosen any dirt, finally, oiled every part that requires lubrication. She cared for those mechanisms as much as a mother would care for her children. The smell of gunpowder calmed her, creating an atmosphere of familiarity.

When she thought a little, drowned in the aroma of guns, it probably was the main reason why the Joker hadn't paralyzed her in terror. He had this scent of gasoline, and gunpowder surrounding him, absorbed by his clothes due to the constant exposure to these substances. The human brain is an unpredictable organ, and instead of concentrating on his macabre war paint, dangerous behaviour, the risk of being murdered in cold blood, it made her pay attention to the familiar smell.

A quiet knock reached Clara's ears, bringing her back to reality. "Forgot anything?"

"Not that I know of." Doctor's fingers froze mid-air, two more cards held firmly, ready to be placed on top of other ones. Instead of doing that, she dropped them down and turned around. A dark-haired man, around her age, dressed in a black dress suit, was leaning against the door frame. He had a slim, bony face with well-defined facial features, pronounced glass-cutting cheekbones, and a seemingly sharp jaw. A man, whose brown eyes on their own could make you fall for him, Clara amusedly noted.

"Is there anything I can help you with, Mr-?"

"Wayne. Bruce Wayne." He stepped inside, nearing the doctor's desk. To not give herself a lesser position Clara had to stand up, almost meeting his height. Wayne's hand was outstretched, so she did exactly the same, trying not to create the first impression of a mannerless savage. Warm skin met cool, a smile met a stoic line of the typical British stiff upper lip, gentle shake rocking both of their bodies. "And you must be Clara if I was informed correctly?"

"You have a reliable informer, Mr Wayne."

"My informer happens to have a soft spot towards you, Doctor." Mirth was heard in Wayne's voice, a barely noticeable smile playing on his lips. His tone was polite enough to trick a bull into a friendship, and yet, Clara had a strange, gnawing feeling about the man.

"Then I should pray that his fondness would not disappear anytime soon if it continuously provides me such pleasant company." Her words made Wayne lift his eyebrows, mouth quirking even further.

"You're just as intricate as Lucius told me you were. If I weren't ready for a riddle to be incarnated in woman's body," His eyes drifted towards Clara's desk, taking in the unfinished construction, "I would have been extremely confused. Probably would have interpreted your sarcasm as honest pleasantries." Here, that honest, friend-like smile appeared once more. The man didn't take offence, apparently, or at least he hid it very well.

"My bantering should not be taken as an insult, Mr Wayne."

"I assure that none is taken."

Clara nodded, acknowledging his statement. It was time for the real purpose of his visit to be revealed. "As much as I would like to stay here and continue chatting, I have to perform a surgery in less than twenty minutes. Is there something important that you wanted to talk about?"

"Well, not something as significant as saving somebody's life, I'm afraid. In a few days, I'm throwing a fundraiser party in honour of Harvey Dent. I would love to see you there too, Doctor."

"Gotham's White Knight? Is this some kind of attempt to publicly show your own benevolent position in terms of his actions? Agreement with the vision of Gotham's future that he has?" Cynicism could be noticed in Clara's low, husky tone, one eyebrow lifted, giving her face a sceptical appearance.

"Are you telling me you don't share my affection?"

"I have my doubts, Mr Wayne. A pretty face and empty talk do not eliminate them."

"Well, then give the man himself a chance to clear your mistrust." Silence followed his proposition, warm brown eyes locked with guarded, steely ones. Bruce could detect the doctor's reluctance to accept his offer. "Furthermore, Lucius informed me how exactly you tend to spend your evenings, Clara." Addressing her by name, Clara mused, the man tried to create a feeling of trust, an acquaintance. "Give the poor man a break for the evening, and come to me. Your punches severely affect his grumpiness." Mentioning of her mentor, instructor and also a man who managed to earn her trust broke something inside Clara.

"I will make an appearance." The shock of such quick change in behaviour momentarily wiped the man's mouth of any positive emotion, only for it to come even brighter. Bruce's smile was genuine and broad. Not an ear-to-ear grin, but wide none the less.

"Perfect. I will contact you sometime in the evening for further details, immediately when I get back from Hong Kong." Stretching his hand once more, Wayne continued. "I will not disturb you anymore, Doctor. I'm sure somebody is waiting for your skills to be used."

Clara did not reply, only nodding once, giving him a handshake. She did not question how the man got her number. After all, being a billionaire had its perks in terms of collecting personal information.

Immediately after Wayne left, the woman decided to also follow his actions, leaving an unfinished house of cards behind. Somebody's cancer was more important than the stupid game. _It's not_.

Clara exited the cabinet, making her way towards the operating room. The fourth one was used specifically for reproductive organs' surgeries. When it came to the world of medical tools, some of them were universal, but the majority were specialized for specific cases. It was much easier to dedicate an operating room with needed instruments for one kind of organ, rather than keep transferring and mixing them up. When she finally arrived, the whole team of residents and nurses was already there, ready to do their job. It took five minutes for Clara to get ready, too. After washing her hands and arms, putting on a white coat, a mask, a head cap and gloves, she was ready to dig inside Miranda's body, identify damaged tissue of her ovaries, and cut it out.

The woman, who laid on top of the table, was young. Definitely younger than Clara herself, which made her question Miranda's future opportunities. She probably does not have any kids, not married or even engaged, based on her bare fingers and tight, toned core. Without ovaries, she still could get pregnant with medical intervention, as Clara will not remove her uterus, but it will disturb the production of estrogen, leading to decreased sex drive, which, as a result, will severely influence future decisions. It's almost like castrating a dog. He loses his liveness, joy, energy. If there was a choice, the surgeon would definitely go for a different route, saving those plum-sized, grey organs that made the woman a woman. Unfortunately, the majority of the human population would go for a quantity of years, and not quality. She couldn't blame them. At one point in her life, Clara would have chosen the same.

It didn't take too long to cut out the tumour-filled body parts. An hour, that's all it takes to permanently stop the production of someone's hormones. "Disinfect and sew. I'm done." Clara had two more surgeries on her schedule, therefore she entrusted the last steps for residents. The woman could trust them under a watchful eye of nurses.

Clara exited the operating room, disposing of her medical clothing. She had to move quickly if she wanted to sleep at home today, as there were two more operations left. Thankfully, neither one of them were extremely serious. Clara made sure to perform the most important procedures as early as possible when the mind is still sharp and the body is strong.

She made her way towards another room, performed exactly the same starting routine, and got one more body open. It was a man this time, middle-aged, his skin tattooed in various ornaments. A sailor, she presumed, taking in two swallows on his chest and an anchor on his bicep. A sailor with gangrene. Even the freest of us fall one day, Clara thought while sawing his dead, blackened leg off. The limb was infected, a 'wet' called gangrene and a tremendously inflamed part of the body. The surgeon couldn't even guarantee the man his life, as this type of gangrenes were absolutely unpredictable, spreading easily and invisibly. Just to be safe, she took samples of tissue from his upper body, biopsies to put under a microscope and check for the spreading of infected flesh.

Clara finished it quickly. There was only so much that Clara could do in this case. When she was younger, guilt usually used to come afterwards, drowning the woman in sorrow and culpability. Now, more than a decade later, it finally disappeared, dulling with each passing year, until nothing was left, except cold, rational logic behind. It was a medic's reality, to lose one's empathy and replace it with a sense of reality. She finished another one, the last surgery of the day, said her goodbyes and went outside. Clara's Mustang was parked in an underground parking lot which was reserved for staff and patients who had to stay for a longer amount of time. Sleep, the only thing on her mind was sleep. Deep slumber, hopefully, a dreamless one. The day was long, and the lack of rest from the previous day finally caught up with the woman.

She got home quicker than usual. Either a lack of cars on the road that night, or it was Clara who drove like a maniac, she couldn't decide. _Bed. Bed. Bed. Finally._ She unlocked her door, climbed up the stairs, managed to open the door to her bedroom, and collapsed on top of the bed, still fully clothed, not caring about it one bit. Fatigue came suddenly and unexpectedly, out of nowhere.

"Are you, uh, _always_ sleeping like _this_? With full attire? Ready to, uh, _jump_ and _fight,_ and _run_?" A comical, nasal voice spoke, disturbing the upcoming oblivion. With a low groan, Clara managed to lift her upper body up, twisting so she could see what was behind her. In the corner, on a desk chair, sat no one else but the Joker, his suit jacket draped over the back of the chair, tie loosened up, hunched in his usual bad-for-your-back posture. The woman could make out only half of his face, a part that was lit by the moonlight. Those hooded bottomless eyes bore into her own, analyzing, like a predator following his prey.

"And are you always so annoyingly sneaky? Always breaking in and then lurking in shadows?" At this point, she didn't care about potentially angering the clown with her sarcastic reply.

"Humans have different approaches of what is _sneaky_ , little assassin. I don't, uh, _hide_ from ya."

"And yet, you break into my house, devastate any sense of my personal safety and privacy." Clara's body collapsed once more, voice becoming muffled by a pillow. "Not that I have any complaints about your company, but don't you have anything else to do? Continue terrorizing Gotham? Robbing banks? Perhaps blowing up something?"

Quiet giggles erupted from Joker's mouth. "Uh, _actually_ , I came here straight from a, uh, high-level _spectacle_. Y'know, if you're interested in my _schedule_." His laugh got louder. " _Striking_ performance, very _realistic_."

"Realistic? You must have participated in it, then? You know, being such a splendid character yourself, I'm sure you would adorn any kind of display."

"I di- _d_. A pool cue was _involved_. You, uh, would have _loved_ it if you liked billiard." Even not seeing him, with her eyes closed, Clara knew that a large grin was displayed on the clown's face, stretching his past wounds.

"I'm a big fan. Next time, if you think of performing it again, count me in."

"A _comedian_ shouldn't repeat his own jokes, little assassin. It will _ruin_ his reputation."

"There is only so much originality in this world, Joker. At some point, one will start duplicating somebody else, even himself, unintentionally." With that, Clara slowly rose, stretching her arms above her head just like she does in the morning, long spine producing cracking sounds. The woman manoeuvred towards her closet, more than aware of the man's eyes on herself.

"Uh, little assassin, whatcha _doin_ '?" Clara detected a slight confusion in Joker's nasal tone as she took off her sweater and proceeded with taking off the shirt.

"Getting ready for bed. What about you?" Looking for an oversized t-shirt that she usually slept in, Clara hung her clothes on one shoulder, taking them inside the bathroom. The whole time she felt a slight tingling on her bare back, indicating a staring man behind.

"I'm no- _t_ getting ready for _bed_."

"I'm not asking whether you're getting ready for bed, Joker. I asked what you're doing." She didn't wait for the clown to answer, closing the door to her bathroom. Clara needed a quick shower, after all, feeling the weight of the day on her shoulders, sticking to her like a second skin. First scorching, then cool water helped a lot, relaxing tense muscles. It took less than ten minutes, but Clara felt a relief worth of decades. She stepped out, dried herself and put on a t-shirt that ended around her middle-thighs. After brushing her teeth and attempting to control the crow's nest on top of her head, the woman exited, turning off the light and drowning the room in darkness once more, the only source of light being a curtainless window. Clara felt antipathy for curtains. They blocked the starlight during nights and sunlight during days, disturbing human's natural ability to follow nature's guidance. The Joker hadn't moved an inch, remaining exactly as she left him. The woman ignored him, uncovering her bed and getting underneath a blanket. "Unless you want to tell me a story before sleep, I highly doubt there's anything left for you to do in my house."

"What about, uh, waiting for ya to fall _asleep_ , and then _murdering_ your unconscious self?"

"Wouldn't that be a little pointless? Where's the thrill of not being able to watch your victim squirm?"

"Ya gotta _sacrifice_ pleasure to get the job _done_ sometimes, little assassin." He became silent for a moment, giving Clara some hope of finally falling asleep. Unfortunately, it just wasn't her day. "Why a, uh, a _crocodile_?"

The Joker was indicating the large tattoo on her backside, consuming whole back and ending slightly below the upper curve of her glutes. "I thought it was you who had to tell me a story before sleep?"

"We could _break_ the rules, toots." The clown showed his enthusiasm by letting out a low chuckle, shuffling slightly on the chair. "C' _mon_ , little _assassin_ , tell me _your_ story."

Despite his urging, Clara remained silent. The woman wasn't sure how much she could open up to the criminal who occupied and found his place inside her house so easily. After all, how much damage could he do with such seemingly irrelevant information? "Almost five years ago, I decided to volunteer. In Israel, as a war doctor." Clara knew she had the clown's attention now, as nothing else but his breathing could be heard. "A few weeks before my departure, I had a dream of a crocodile. The whole time while devouring various human parts that were just laying around, he stared into my eyes. Even in a dream, I could tell that the reptile was laughing, mocking the irony of my choice. For those men, for soldiers in Israel, I was about to become both a symbol of destructive voracity and an agent of divine retribution."

"Because in _their_ eyes _you_ decided who's goin' to, uh, _live_ and who are doomed to _die_?"

"Mhm." Neither of them said anything else, only breathing in unison.

"Y'know, ya look like a _warrior_." The Joker's voice suddenly got a shadow of amusement, confusing the woman whether he was mocking her or actually stating his honest opinion. "These, uh, _scars_ on your back, and the _croc_ , and your dramatically _bleak,_ kinda _ugly_ persona, they create an image of something that's been through _hell_ , taunted the _devil_ , and then came _back_ to tell the story." Now the clown was openly laughing, the usual nasality of his tone completely hidden in high-pitched sounds of his guffaw.

"I'm glad my story managed to make you, an experienced comedian, laugh." Despite the slight uncertainty, she too heard mirth in her own voice. Listening to Joker's slowly dying chuckles, Clara stared at stars that were visible through the bare window, bright and distant, so unlike the memories that she possessed. And suddenly, laying in her own bed, with a psychotic criminal sitting in less than a few meter's distances, starlight bathing one side of his, and, she was positive, her own face, Clara felt... Safe. Still troubled, anxious somewhere deep within, but a perspective of a brighter future was not completely unattainable either. With her eyes already closed, she murmured. "Next time it will be your turn to tell me a story. A piece of advice on where I could get such long-lasting paint for my Halloween outfit is highly needed." With the man's silent giggles in the background, the metaphorical warrior's body finally surrendered, falling into a dreamless slumber.

 _Song of the chapter: Tool - Vicarious_


	6. Felo-de-se

When Clara woke up the next morning, the Joker was absent. She didn't feel surprised. The man was probably mad, just like Jonathan said, but not delusional enough to stay until morning and watch her sleep. Even for him, it should have seemed like a complete waste of time. The only thing that astounded Clara was the fact that her throat was not sliced open like a Thanksgiving turkey. Not that she would have enjoyed that, not at all. Yet, the Joker was a wild card, and the woman would trust him to do something along those lines. Bloody hell, she would trust _anyone_ to throw a knife in her back if it was turned, so after the clown himself stated the idea of murdering Clara in her sleep, it was no surprise that the surgeon started wondering whether or not he was just a bad dream.

The woman moved her head from one side to another, producing cracking sounds in her neck, waking up the stiff musculature of her upper body. Sometimes, she felt much older than she was. Especially at moments like this, when her whole body resembled a straight, immobile board, which cracked and moaned, and hurt with every movement. As the day rolls on and matures, the stiffness disappears as if it had never been there before, allowing the flexible, predator-like movements take its place, but until then, Clara had to deal with the slight discomfort.

The phone on her nightstand had single green light lit, indicating a missed call, or a message. Checking it, Clara found an unknown number written across the screen. Somebody had called her earlier the previous night, but due to the absence of ring tone, she didn't notice it. It was probably Wayne, proceeding his previous promise of informing her about the fundraiser party. It was too early for the majority of the population to be already awake, but not for billionaires. At least that was what Clara presumed, whilst lifting the phone to her ear. And as always when it came to humans and their behaviour, her presumptions were completely and totally wrong.

"Yes?" Groggy, sleepy voice of the man reached her through space, indicating that, in fact, it was who Clara thought it was, and that the billionaire was still in his bed, fast asleep until the annoying device disturbed his rest.

"I have just found your call, Mr Wayne."

"My... Call?" Apparently, the man wasn't completely awake yet, disoriented in his surroundings. "Did anything happen with the armour?"

Silence followed his question. Clara didn't know how to respond to Wayne's question, nor what the man had in mind with 'armour'. A code? An anagram, perhaps? A password of some sorts? "I really hope that the armour is safe and shining, and firm as boron nitride, but no, I'm not calling for that." The slight mocking broke Bruce's mind haze, bringing him back to reality.

"I'm so sorry, Ms Moore. I must have confused you with someone else. Happens, when you're being caught by surprise. Right, I did call you yesterday, as soon as I came back. You didn't answer, so I figured out it must have been another emergency on your behalf."

 _It was. Sort of._ "It probably wasn't. I just don't like keeping my phone next to me, or have a loud ringtone." _Circus in your own house probably wasn't a universal tragedy, huh?_

"Sometimes, I would really like to do it myself. Throw it away and simply ignore the outer world." Clara detected a slight longing in Wayne's tone, emphasized by a short silence after her statement. It probably sucked to be him sometimes.

"The empire would _definitely_ collapse if its ruler gave himself a day off, ditching his phone. I'm sure of that."

"Trust me, it would. Anyway, I called you yesterday to inform about the party. We decided to host it this evening, at my penthouse." Soon, that was way too soon for her. That bloody party, honouring the man of questionable reputation, was hardly something that Clara wanted to spend her evening on. But promises were promises. The woman followed her own word, after all.

"Is there a dress code, or anything else I should know and be prepared for before coming?"

"Your attendance alone is enough, Doctor. It's up to you to decide what to wear." Bruce became silent for a while. Clara waited, not pushing him. "I'm well aware that your intellect probably allows you to realize the actual reason why I wish you to be one of the guests. And I don't mean to insult you as a person because of my selfish interest in your notable achievements and name as a surgeon, Clara."

"I do understand the value of powerful friends, Mr Wayne. Even when those friends are held close just to keep the public attention and awes."

"I... Just wanted to be clear and transparent with you."

"And I thank you for your honesty." The woman was thankful indeed. She realized why the billionaire came yesterday. Clara lacked naivety to allow obvious signs to slip through her fingers. "Despite that, I will make an appearance, just as promised. Is there any specific hour that I should be at the party?"

"I'm afraid there is not. You can be both exemplary punctual and fashionably late. As long as it is still considered 'evening'." He was smiling. By now, Clara was able to distinguish those subtle variations in Wayne's tone that indicated his amusement or anxiety. It didn't take too long. The woman was good at reading people. "I will see you in about twelve hours, Doctor."

"Good. Sorry about waking you up." Clara didn't give him a chance to respond, ending the call immediately. She needed to stay at the hospital until two P.M. that day, as the majority of surgeries were taken care of by her co-workers. Thinking about the attire, Clara remembered having one single black dress somewhere in her wardrobe, mid-length, hiding both the wearer's chest and back, but exposing one leg almost to the top due to a deep, harsh slit on the side. The woman knew that this specific piece of clothing would emphasize those long legs and a deep curve in the spine, and at the same time disguise the provocative appearance of her biggest tattoo, the croc. Arms would be left uncovered, upper sleeves and shoulder art on full display. Clara wasn't overly concerned about them. There weren't any swastikas nor explicit views, but those beautiful pieces of art tended to be covered by clothes, mainly because of the arguable suitability for someone of great importance in the society to be demonstrating such controversial ways of embellishing one's body.

But first, there was the whole day to spend before she really had to do anything. Following her routine, Clara wasted almost two hours in her garage gym, today concentrating more on her explosive power. Adding a clap while doing push-ups, or a half muscle-up or an additional jump wearied the woman, but she never turned down a challenge, and changing one's training routine once in a while was exactly that - a challenge for both the body and mind. A shower followed quickly, water streaming down Clara's sweaty body and washing off any remaining proof of her morning routine. After making herself as presentable as possible, she skipped breakfast, just as she used to do, and went outside. Clara would be out of hospital at around lunch time, therefore the woman didn't prepare her usual container of food. After all, a warm, home cooked beef ragu sounded more appealing than a cold chicken breast.

It was easy for Clara to fall into her habitual routine. The hospital, its staff, patients, even Christian Brook, the annoying boy in a man's suit. Everything flew by, this day blending with the previous ones. Almost. It didn't last as long, and by two P.M., the woman was already sitting in her car, reversing and driving in the direction of her home. Lunch. Finally, food could be her priority.

Food. There was something about cooking that always fascinated the surgeon. Perhaps the invisible-to-the-innexperienced-eye complexity of food making, or the chemistry of ingredient reacting with each other. Various tastes blending together, creating harmony. Order. In cooking, the order was always a priority. Everybody can create a cacophony of tastes and textures. But only a few are able to make something so well-matched that the receiver of the meal would stop eating in awe, slow down to the speed of a snail, just to prolong the pure pleasure, even greater than sex.

First thing, after washing her hands thoroughly, Clara chopped the fresh beef into relatively large chunks, which she later fried in clarified butter together with root vegetables, then poured a huge glass of red wine into the pot, put in some salt, spices and herbs, a tiny splash of wine vinegar, and left it on the stove for a slow, steady braise. Juices and fat from beef chunks, mixed with unreasonably expensive wine, provided enough moisture and acidity to tenderize the meat and also cook pieces of winter squash and sweet potatoes, carrots and onions to perfection. The smell of garlic and bay leaves invaded Clara's kitchen, allowing no negotiations for other smells.

Low sounds of TV from her living room reached the woman. She didn't pay much attention to it, simply waiting for afternoon news to come. For the past week, Clara tried not to miss any. She figured out it was one of the quicker ways to follow the Joker's actions of destruction. While not necessarily providing anything overly important, it allowed her to make a mind map, see a potentially bigger picture of the clown's actions. Clara refused to believe that everything he does is for his own pure entertainment. The Joker had to have a purpose underneath this chaos. Unfortunately, the woman hadn't found it yet.

 _'...Police released video footage found concealed on the body. Sensitive viewers, be aware: it is disturbing.'_

What the hell did he do now? Leaving the ragu simmer, she went to her living room, narrowing her eyes when a tied up man took up the whole screen, an animal carcass behind him.

 _'Tell them your name.'_ An unmistakable voice, weirdly enough, very smoothly and politely asked.

 _'Brian Douglas.'_ One more fake Batman, huh? Another corpse left behind.

 _'Are you the real Batman?'_ No, he wasn't. Obviously, he's not. Just a fraud, an unbelievably stupid human being.

 _'No.'_

 _'Why do you dress up like him?'_

 _'He's a symbol that we don't have to be afraid of scum like you.'_ With Brian's words, Clara froze. It angered the Joker, apparently, as his tone changed, losing its velvety flow, a growl-like sound escaping his mouth.

 _'But you do, Brian. You really do. Ya think the Batman's helped Gotham?'_ The man nodding uncertainly, the clown seemingly lost his control. _' Look at me._ _LOOK AT ME.'_ The woman flinched at the clown's inhuman voice, keeping her steely, unblinking eyes on the fraud in front. A view changed, the Joker's face taking up the whole screen. _'Y'see this-s is how crazy Batman's made Gotham. You want, uh, order in Gotham. Batman must take off his mask and turn himself in. Uh, and every day he doesn't, people will die. Startin' tonight.'_ Hollow abysses stared at viewers, corrupting their mind, promising pain and blood. _'I'm a man of my wor-r-rd.'_ The gruffness in the man's tone turned into a crazy guffaw, the scene in front distorting, Brian's screams mixing with the clown's psychotic laughter. The screen turned black, leaving a rigid woman starring into blankness. The Joker didn't possess any remorse, and his morality was non-existent.

He was... Like a child. Children could be unbelievably cruel, if not exposed to gentle feelings at the beginning of their existences. The lack of knowledge, understanding of other's pain could create a little monster, running around and murdering street cats. Clara embraced this kind of sensation herself, and therefore she had a feeling that childhood trauma was probably not the case in the Joker's state of mind. Nevertheless, his playfulness and twisted sense of humour combined with complete and utter mercilessness did reach something deep within Clara, bringing back memories that previously were dulled by the power of decades.

Forcing her own mind shut, the woman abruptly stood up, leaving now the silent living room. She climbed up the stairs, moving towards her bedroom. Clara did find the black dress, after all, just before departing to hospital. It hung on a hanger, such an unusual piece of clothing in her wardrobe. Not exactly a complete stranger, though. Its owner retreated a butterfly knife from her pocket and put it inside a small cavity on the side of the dress, which was sewn exactly for this reason by the woman herself. The material was loose enough to not expose the outline, so the blade was hidden relatively well. The knowledge of it being there provided a feeling of safety, at least a sliver of it.

Clara heaved a sigh. The Joker promised death. She believed him. The gnawing feeling of unease didn't leave her. The clown paid just too much attention for her liking, making the woman question whether it was her who the terrorist chose as another victim. With invisible weight on her shoulders, the surgeon left her bedroom, going down towards the kitchen, where the stew should already be good to eat. Afterwards, Clara may read something, an attempt to calm herself down. She had a weird gut feeling which refused to disappear, even after half a chocolate bar. The only thing that the woman could do was occupy herself.

Evening came quicker than it was supposed to. Rising slowly from her comfortable armchair, Clara made her way back upstairs, to where all of her beauty products were tucked. If she goes out, at least the woman will make herself presentable. It was weird how somebody from average could become gorgeous just with the help of a little makeup. Outlining her grey orbs, careful to not give herself a racoon-like appearance, the woman mused about this paradox of life.

Clara was a beautiful woman. Not drop-dead gorgeous, but beautiful in her own unique way. When she hit puberty, the cool, atypical beauty became even more prominent. When the majority of young women possessed warmth and sweetness in their ovals, lusciousness on their plum lips, Clara's facial characteristics got bony, eyes became weary and distrustful, full mouth tended to be tightly pressed, rarely projecting any emotion. And every time she put on makeup, once young, now in her thirties, the woman watched in awe as her face lost its usual gaunt look, grey and black contrasting sharply with the crimson of her lips. But every time it happens, and a stranger stares back at her, she starts hating whoever she becomes. Hiding behind a wall of artificial magnificence in Clara's eyes was just too harmful for one's mental health. At some point, when the facade drops, you will have to face reality once more. The realization hits, and your self-worth collapses.

Tattoos, on the other hand, ensured something permanent on your skin. Ever-lasting art. Eternity. One's personal 'Always and Forever'.

Soon, Clara was locking the door and moving towards her Mustang, trying not to trip and fall face-down in those hilarious heels and clumsy dress. It was already dark outside, and she hoped that the party had already reached its peak. Unfortunately, after arriving, the woman realized it was probably one of those celebrations that lasted the whole night.

Manoeuvring among first-time-see people for five minutes, the surgeon was already feeling out of her character. It would be hard to find anyone worse-fitting in such an environment than Clara, who clearly prefered the company of her books over pointless human interaction. People around her chatted loudly, easily moving from one topic to another, spilling the fragments of their conversations all around, lacking any privacy and subtility. Anyone could hear who slept with whom, how much the neighbour's new car cost, or who decided to make a risky investment. It was something that, at least in the woman's eyes, should have remained behind the door, locked only for the closest ones to discuss with.

Soon, Clara's bleak thoughts were disturbed by the sound of a helicopter. A fucking helicopter. Who else, other than Bruce Wayne, could decide to make a such a show. With one eyebrow raised, Clara followed the man with her eyes, three gorgeous women next to him. A clutch of supermodels, huh?

"I'm sorry that I'm late. I'm glad to see that you all got started without me." Like a monkey in the zoo, the billionaire immediately attracted everybody's attention. "Now, where is Harvey? Where-" He found him, turning towards the man. "Harvey Dent. The man of the hour. Where is Rachel Dawes? She is my oldest friend."

With a slight shake of her head, Clara turned around, heading for the snack table, listening for Bruce's speech with only one ear. She managed to almost tune him off, in search of something delicious - a shrimp, perhaps? "...I believe in Harvey Dent. I believe that on his watch Gotham can feel a little safer, a little more optimistic. And I believe that finally doctors and surgeons," The man turned around, dedicating his - and everybody's else - whole attention to the woman of the subject. "will not see bullets, buried deep inside humans' bodies, where they certainly don't belong." Wayne fell silent, his brown eyes encouraging Clara to express her agreement.

"Exactly. We probably will have so much more free time to attend this kind of celebrations." Her sarcasm was masked with a forced out smile, cheers and applause following the surgeon's statement.

Who knew that it would be so easy to charm these clueless people. Twenty minutes later, Clara's company was still requested by businessmen, their wives and secret lovers, and fake friends. Excusing herself, the woman finally moved towards the balcony but stopped in her tracks after seeing Wayne with Rachel, and no other but Harvey Dent on the roof. After a moment, two of them moved towards the door, nodding at Clara whilst passing her, leaving disappointed-looking billionaire behind. It cracked a small, one-sided smirk on the surgeon's face. Like a child caught with his hand in the sweets' cabinet.

"Bad luck, huh?" The tall woman neared him, keeping her cloudy gaze locked with his. Those brown orbs projected a weird emotion that she just couldn't identify yet. Sadness? Not exactly. Anger? Hardly. Disappointment, and something else mixed with it.

"Probably it's just not my day. I hope at least you've had some fun?"

"Watching catfights and listening to conceited dicks worship themselves? Right. An extremely accurate definition of fun, Bruce." Hearing his name come from Clara's lips, the man raised his eyebrows, a tiny, but hopeful and promising smile playing on his lips.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it. By the way, you've got some really nice ink there." Humour concealed previous bleakness, transforming those classically handsome features completely.

Not for long. Before Clara could reply something else, equally sarcastic as her previous responses, a quiet echo reached their ears. Both of their faces distorted after hearing a quiet, but unmistakable sound. With a single eye contact, they communicated without words, silent sentences exchanged. _Trouble_. That's what the sound promised.

Wayne abruptly turned, heading inside, Clara following him shortly after. She guessed he might have gone after Rachel or Dent, to protect two most important people in the room. The woman stayed among others, anxiously waiting for something to happen. Her gut feeling didn't deceive. A few minutes later, a sound of elevator, and then a shoot echoed in the huge space. Silence. And then...

" _Good_ evening, ladies and _gentle_ men. We're, uh, tonight's _entertainment_." The intruder got his mouth busy with chewing something. _Shrimp_. "I only have one question." The Joker turned, unexpectedly meeting Clara's furious gaze. The man froze for a millisecond, surprise revealed by the sudden clench of his razor-sharp jaw. Not staggering in his tracks, the clown continued. "Where. Is. Harvey. Dent?" Moving around, and at the same time closer to her, he started questioning fear-paralyzed people around, until an old man talked back to him. With slightly detached curiosity, the surgeon listened to the clown's nonsense that he fed people around him, about how he hated his father, whilst the metaphorical gears worked inside her head.

A voice of no other but Rachel Dawes commanded him to stop. Cursing voicelessly, Clara followed Joker's slow movements. These people clearly had no clue how to behave around terrorists.

Like a predator, the man stalked towards Dawes - and Clara, who stood almost behind her. "Well, _hell-o_ beautiful." Saying that two black abysses were locked with the steel, a clear question in them. Lowering her head to one side, the surgeon intensely followed his gracious movements, not even paying much attention to the story about how he self-inflicted those macabre scars. Clara guessed it was another bullshit that he fed the population's naivety with, just to petrify them. Or force Rachel to sympathize with his wife, perhaps? Remembering the clown's previously used game theory, the woman was positive that he might think of another trick, a different riddle to confuse everybody. And it was what Clara's keen mind was focused on at that moment.

The realization hit hard and out of nowhere. Widening her eyes slightly, the surgeon stilled completely. The Joker stated he was looking for Harvey Dent. But... Was he, really? Or perhaps he tried to lure a much bigger fish, his own nemesis? _Stupid clown._

A man in a bat suit, who had just appeared out of nowhere, hit the clown. Hard. And as stupid as it sounded, Clara heard the clown giggling, as if he was enjoying the process of getting beaten up. The Joker was either suicidal or completely out of his mind. Both, probably. "How in the world are you going to escape, idiot?" Murmuring underneath her breath, Clara threw one last look towards two furious men, before manoeuvring towards the exit.

The anarchist had something else up in his sleeve. He, too, realized that his chances of escaping decreased noticeably. Forcing one of his goons on the Batman, he kicked him with a knifed foot, injuring his opponent. Already outside the large room, Clara didn't see his - her - revolver on the ground, which the Joker crawled towards, after enduring a particularly painful punch himself. Nor did she hear the man's maniacal giggles, when he grabbed Rachel, preventing the Batman from doing anything. Practically disarming him. _Powerless_.

In the elevator, a plan continued developing inside Clara's head. "I will regret this. I will so fucking regret this."

 _He threw the, uh, woman. Batsy, he threw himself after. His priority. Not him, not the, uh, criminal, but girlie, that little squirt. Turning back, he couldn't see his-s-s girl, his as-s-sassin. Where the hell did she disappear? A tug. He felt a tug on his collar. Little assassin, no-t so little at all, kept tugging him, hi-m-m, long fingers, claw-like fingers digging into his suit. "Be quiet, clown." A diaphragmatic, husky voice hissed next to his ear, raising tiny hairs due to the warm gust. He didn't like the last part. Not. One. Bit. He followed the assassin, keeping an eye on his, on their-r-s surroundings. She lead him somewhere, stairs, they started climbing down the stairs, the woman's heels clicking silently. He wanted to silence that s-s-sound, his arms encircled the assassins waist, ready to lift and, uh, throw her over his shoulder. A sharp elbow met his ribs, pain spreading like vulturous fingers. Little as-s-sassin hit him, sending back a murderous, freezing look. Door. Door? They reached the outside, a black, sleek car parked right next to where they were. "In." Is he being kidnappe-d by the little assassin? For sure he is-s-s._

"Stop wasting my time and get in, Joker." The clown grinned at her, opening the passenger's door.

"Y'know, at this rate, _soon_ ya will be just as much of a _criminal_ as I am, _toots_."

"Are you serious? I would be a much higher class criminal than you, felo-de-se."

 _Song of the chapter: System Of A Down - B.Y.O.B_


	7. Interpretations

"Where _are_ we, uh, _goin_ ', little assassin?"

The Joker, sitting in the passenger's seat of Clara's black Mustang, looked overly comfortable. A few minutes after getting in, he pushed the seat back. Now Joker's legs were stretched out, a smug, yet curious expression on that angular face. She rescued the clown, but now what? Just drop him off somewhere, and drive off? What was Clara supposed to do? Nobody taught her how to behave when a terrorist sat beside her, on her own will.

"No idea. Any particular dream that you might have? Mexico? Canada? We could visit Saint Paul, haven't been there in a while." The road was empty, they were the only ones, like nomads, travelling with no aim, no final destination. The sky was their limit.

"I'm pretty _sure_ it was _me_ who, uh, had to kidnap _you_ , toots. More suitable for _my_ character." Grinning, the Joker twisted in his seat, positioning those long legs in a more comfortable way. "You keep _surprisin'_ little ol' me."

"What could I say, clown? It is not a secret I am smarter than you. It is only natural to be ahead of those who are of the lesser intellect." The man hummed underneath his breath, an unrecognizable tune developing deep within his throat.

"So _nowadays_ , intellec- _t_ is based upon the speed in which people decide to, uh, _kidnap_ each other?"

"That's what I said."

"Your logic is _flawed_." Clara threw him an amused look, one eyebrow lifted.

"How could you tell?" Her question was met with a silent gleam in the bottomless eyes. The surgeon's attention went back to the road, but not before she noticed the grim line of his mouth twitch. "Where should I drop you?"

" _Drop_ me? _Why_ would you want to _drop_ me?" Faking his hurt, the man linked both of his arms together. "Call me a, uh, _puppy_. Y'know, little, uh, _cute_ dog. You _rescue_ a puppy. Y' _keep_ the puppy." A smirk tore through his lips, stretching his scars. "Ya gotta _keep_ me now. _Stuck_ with me." Giggling lowly, he poked at Clara's upper arm, a little harder than just a friendly touch.

"Puppies grow, Joker. And grown dogs tend to get into trouble. Sometimes, that trouble is detrimental. That's why I've never owned a pet." Long, bony fingers tapped the steering wheel lazily. "Let's say, a sick rodent or a bat bites the dog. The animal goes crazy." The woman could feel his attention, eyes caressing the visible side of her face. "When the dog becomes mad, there is only one way to treat him, before he causes too much trouble."

"Are you telling me asad _story_ , or are you _implyin'_ what those, uh, _powerful_ humans should do with the _crazy_ ones?" Clara turned to him just in time to see a tongue darting out, licking the scar on his lower lip. "Eyes on roa- _d_ , toots." She moved her head back, thinking about how to answer him.

"A sad story, huh? I've told you I've never owned a pet, so why should it be a sad story?"

"I _dunno_. _Women_ say one thing, means _another_." A slow breath escaped Clara's mouth. They seemed way too comfortable with each other for her liking.

"Well, I mean what I say. It is factual information that we dispose of those who do not fit in our society. Completely neutral."

Clara predicted that the topic of insanity, even though the man himself probably wasn't as mad as the society may think, was somewhat touchy. She wanted to redirect the topic of their conversation towards safer, less personal waters. "Moving back to the upsetting animal stories, we have an example of what happens when a dog goes mad and nobody does anything." Lack of an answer made her twist her neck once more, to check on the Joker. Staring at her, with eyebrows underneath the black paint slightly furrowed, the man kept moving his tongue inside of his mouth, caressing the insides of his scars. "At least that's what happened with Cujo."

" _Cujo?_ "

"Stephen King? Doesn't ring a bell?" Stretching silence was everything that Clara needed for an answer. "Next time, instead of breaking in and stealing revolvers while I sleep, try to visit my library." Low giggles erupted from his chest, acknowledging the fact that she noticed the missing guns indeed.

" _Steal_? I, uh, only _borrowed_ them. For an _indefinite_ amount of time. Y'know, _friends_ tend to _borrow_ things from each other. For a _lifetime._ " Even not looking, Clara knew that a grin probably made its way on Joker's lips. She... Grasped the blueprint of his behaviour as tightly as she could, bearing in mind that the clown's character was unpredictable as the sea. Yet, it intrigued her to the point of no returning. And it was okay to spend a little time with the strange man, as long as her own well-being wasn't in danger. _Scientific purposes._

"Joker?"

" _Yes-s_?"

"Open the glove compartment and pass me the phone." The man stared at her, a sudden suspicion showing inside those bottomless black eyes. Rolling her eyes, Clara tapped her fingers on the steering wheel with impatience. Joker slowly moved, doing as she said, holding the phone and, Clara had no doubts, mentally debating with himself whether or not just throw it out the window. It would have worked with the plan, but also meant wasting a valuable device. Before the clown could do that, she snatched it from his gloved fingers. Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, with other she turned off the device, cutting any possible tracking of her location via phone. Handing it back to the man and motioning to put it back, she met his questioning eyes. Dark paint around them started to smudge, blending with white, exposing patches of his own skin. Those two black abysses were hooded, well-masked exhaustion written over the clown's face. "Don't want to risk. I turned off security cameras, so I don't think anybody saw me... Kidnapping you. That does not mean my sudden departure will remain unnoticed."

"You, uh, _turned off_ the cameras? How did ya do that in _five_ minutes?"

"I have my ways."

" _Flash_ the guards?"

Fat silence followed his question. With a long, dirty look thrown the clown's way, Clara finally said. "No, it would have taken much longer. Usually, all cameras are connected in one spot. You find the spot, cut one single wire, and everything goes black." Making a quick turn to the right, she continued driving on an empty road, small areas of farmland slowly appearing in the horizon. They were still somewhere around Gotham, not too far away.

"And the spo- _t_? How do you _find_ it?" These technicalities piqued Joker's attention. As the car turned, gravity made him lean towards the woman. But even when vehicle levelled out, he stayed there, invading her personal space, and a smell of gunpowder hit her nose. Smiling, Clara slowly lifted her free hand, gently putting it on one of his shoulders, feeling the deltoid flex underneath. Then, with unexpected force, the woman pushed Joker back into his seat, successfully taking back her breathing area.

"I'm putting ideas in your head, aren't I?" Seeing him grin back at her, Clara got her confirmation. The man will almost definitely use this information later, most likely while breaking the security system of another bank.

" _Ideas_ -s? Are you implying I don't have _any_ ideas of my _own_?"

"It's you who said that, Joker." The quietness of the night enveloped them once more. It was rather strange how comfortable the woman felt. Not talking, just holding a steering wheel in one hand, another one draped lightly on the gear lever. "How did you manage to get rid of the Batman?" Quiet shuffle was heard from beside her. Joker opened the glove compartment once more and took out an opened bar of chocolate, which he broke a piece from.

"I, uh, _let go_ of the girlie. Batsy _flung_ himself after."

"You dropped her?" With unbelieving eyes, Clara searched for confirmation in his face, black orbs closed, mouth relaxed in a natural curve, savouring the taste of sweets.

"That's what _I_ said." Lack of remorse in the clown's voice was disturbing, although not exactly unexpected. Taking in a deep breath, Clara tried to isolate herself from the familiarity of his behaviour, and focus on another detail that caught her attention. Analytical mind analyzed the situation, going from one possible layout to another. The longer she thought about it, the more sense it made. Pieces of a complicated puzzle suddenly got in their places, giving a bigger picture.

"Don't you think that... Batman might be _involved_ with that woman, Rachel?" Clara swam in dangerous waters now. She had to be careful not to give away too much of her hypothetical conclusions.

" _Involved_? Y'mean, like, uh, _sexually_ involved?" Clara felt him move beside her, changing his position. One more crack was heard, the stocks of chocolate melting away.

"Well, I would call it an emotional involvement. Typically one doesn't fling himself risking his own life after a one-night stand."

"I _would_ if the one-night stand was _good._ " Shaking her head, Clara stopped on the sidewalk, turning off the engine. Rubbing her bloodshot eyes, the woman rested her head on the headrest. "Are you, uh, _alright_?" There was no honest concern in Joker's tone, merely an indifferent wonder.

"Still alive."

" _Why_ would you think that, uh, _Batsy_ cares for _Dent's_ squeeze?" Apparently, the possibility of Batman having a weakness, a person that he cares for, was something that the Joker saw as being of potential use.

"Have you ever cared for someone?"

"Well, have _you_?"

"I have." Clara's answer was truthful, but lacking any emotion underneath. "And therefore I believe that there is something more going on between them. More than a mere want to protect a poor woman from a psychotic terrorist."

"Is this a, uh, _happy_ ever after kin- _d_ of story, _huh_?" The woman opened her steely eyes, finding the clown already looking at her, a bite-sized piece of dark goodness right in front of her nose. "D'ya have a _happy_ ending?"

"Our ways parted. Hopefully, he does have a great time in whatever place we go to after death. James deserves that." Sarcasm was Clara's way of coping with pain. Even after all those months, it still hurt. James was a real friend - something that was hard to find even in the most humane, favourable environment. To find someone to care for so much is dangerous, and the woman knew that. They could hurt you without doing anything. But experience is valuable. You learn from it, acquire knowledge on how to avoid situations like this. Build a wall around your most vulnerable part. Now, keeping eye contact with a murderous man, Clara was confident in both her ability to prevent the pain from coming and also her findings. Slowly, she leaned forwards, exposing straight, gleaming teeth and cautiously taking what she was offered.

"At least I can have you _all_ for _my_ self no-ow." Chuckling, the Joker extended his arm and stroke-tapped her head, causing Clara to lift one eyebrow.

"And when exactly did we become so intimate, again? Did I miss something?"

"The moment you _intimately_ strangled me, _toots._ " The man was silent for a moment, caressing the scars with his tongue from the inside. "Wanna, uh, _help_ me with something?"

Clara examined his face, taking in the way paint failed to hide parts of his skin, exposing parts of something humane. _Just a man._ A destructive man. A man without any remorse. "Why do I have a feeling I won't like whatever you need help with?"

"Ya don't need to do _anythin'_ but _wait._ Oh, and I wanna _drive._ " His mood changed lightning-fast. Not waiting for her response, Joker got out of the car, leaving the door open, and came around towards Clara's side where he opened her door, tooting quietly. The woman had no other choice but to get out, manoeuvring towards the passenger's seat. But before sitting in, she lifted the opened packaging from the seat, which the Joker so mindfully put down, probably hoping Clara would sit on it. _Jerk_.

"Don't break my car, clown."

"J." The Joker impatiently retorted, throwing annoyed look. "Call me, uh, _Joker_ , or _J_. I don- _t_ like the _clown_ part."

"Well, J., if you would have given me an actual name, I wouldn't keep pointing out your fetish for clowns."

"A name _carries_ your _past_. And I don't _have_ a past, little assassin." The Joker sped up, ignoring any speed limits, driving back toward Gotham. "Past experiences _define_ you. I don't wanna be defined. To survive in this wor-r-rld, ya gotta _adapt_. And," they crossed the invisible wall of Gotham, suddenly bathed in street lights. "It's _easier_ to do it if ya don't have _basal_ ground in the first place, _toots._ "

"No identity, huh? Isn't it a little depressing? No stability, permanence? Constancy?"

"That's the _beauty_ , not _doldrums_. You can be _whoever_ you wanna be." Grinning, he turned his face towards Clara, stretching those two macabre scars. Breaking another piece off, she wondered how they would feel underneath her fingers. Soft, smooth? It should be, having in mind that it's his face that they're on. Facial skin is delicate, keeping its tenderness even when damaged. " _Here._ " Checking their surroundings, Clara found them parked next to a dark building, somewhere near the centre of the city. "Wanna, uh, _wait_ in thecar?"

"Hmm." Clara hummed lowly in confirmation. With one last glimpse towards the building, the woman turned her steely gaze, dulled by artificial light, to the man next to her. The Joker was checking his - her - revolver, putting in a fresh set of bullets. "Don't get yourself killed." Seeing a grin spread on his face, Clara rolled her eyes. He obviously got the actual meaning but decided to twist her words around, giving them the sentiment that shouldn't have been there.

"I _knew_ I grew on ya."

"I don't want police to follow my tail, a dead criminal found a few meters from my location."

"Yeah, yeah, keep _denyin'_ reality, toots." With a quiet slam, the Joker got outside, leaving the woman alone in her own car, calmly walking towards the entrance. He opened a large door, and disappeared behind it, cutting off the gaze of a pair of misty eyes. The wave of cool air that came in when he opened the door slowly dissipated. Left on her own, Clara felt like she could finally breathe. How the fuck did she manage to get in this situation? Sitting in her own Mustang, waiting for a lunatic who is probably killing some unaware idiots, with her mind confused and in a haze. Weirdly enough, the woman enjoyed Joker's company. He had brilliant intelligence lurking somewhere deep inside, analytical mind that the man used to create the ultimate chaos and destruction. And although he was the complete opposite of Scarecrow, which Clara considered as the only human being on this Earth that she could share her honest and unfiltered thoughts with, she still found herself leaning towards the clown, giving him larger and larger pieces of her own mind. For a creature that was so used to live by herself, except for an occasional conversation and a shag with the psychologist or a sparring session with Lucius, meeting someone else to spend time with was the same as a peaceful evening stroll to the Moon and back. It just doesn't happen.

Without noticing, her bloodshot, tired eyes closed, consciousness slowly slipping into oblivion. The last thing that Clara remembered was a feeling of soft-hard headrest against her skull. She didn't hear a barely audible opening and shutting of a door, nor a silent humming and tooting underneath someone's breath or the rustling of clothing.

The woman's slumber was disturbed by an abrupt stop which jolted her frontward, only a seat belt saving her from an impact with a window. "What the hell are you doing?" She scream-growled, rubbing a red mark from the seat belt on her chest, gaze-freezing the giggling madman on her left.

"We're, uh, _home_." Grinning, the Joker sent her a malicious, toothy grin, white enamel exposed underneath yellow paint on his teeth, indicating this contemplated act of waking her up in the most unpleasant manner. _And why in the world this lunatic paints his teeth?_ "Home, sweet _home_ , toots."

"Right. Shall I give you a lift back to your place, or would you prefer to have a nighttime walk?"

"You're _not_ indicating what I _think_ you _ar_ -r-re indicating, little assassin?" Showing an artistically astonished expression, the clown licked his lips, a weird, smacking-like sound escaping from his mouth. "I'm, uh, _tired_ , and _hungry_ , and _dirty_ , and, uh, _kidnapped_. Don't be so _heartless_." With a tired rub of her forehead, Clara closed her eyes once more, only now noticing the weight of a purple jacket in her lap. It provided enough warmth for the cool summer night, keeping her own heat trapped underneath. Persuaded. She was persuaded. _Or just too tired to argue._

"You sleep on the couch, clown."

" _Jack_." The man spat a name through gritted teeth as if the word itself tasted foul. Clara lifted her steely eyes, a reflection of uncertainty and something else showing through. "Call me _whatever_ ya wan- _t_ , but sto- _p_ using the ' _clown_ ' when addressing _me_." He forced a grin, but those hooded orbs told an entirely different story. "Even _clowns_ don't, uh, _like_ when others _refer_ to them as ' _clowns_ ', toots." The woman was quiet for a while, keeping her gaze locked with Joker's - _Jack's_ \- eyes.

"I made beef ragu earlier today." Throwing a quick glance at the car clock, she added. "I mean, yesterday. If you're hungry, I can heat it up for you."

"Tha- _t_ would be nice, little assassin." With a nod, Clara got out of the car, trusting the man behind to find his way inside the house. She unlocked the front door, took off her heels and made her way towards the living room, where she put Joker's jacket on the couch. After that, the woman walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge and took out the halfway-full pot of stew. A few minutes after putting it on the stove, the aroma of garlic and bay spread in waves. Turning around, she noticed the Joker leaning against the doorpost, following her movements like a huge, impenetrable predator. A cat of some sorts, a huge lion. A wolf? A Bear? But something was different. Out of place. Finding the change, Clara's eyebrow shot up.

"I see you have found the bathroom, haven't you?"

Barefaced and with hair still wet around his face, the man, Jack, simply stood there, comfortably putting his weight against the construction.

"I _have_. Isn't there a bit, uh, too _dark_?" He was probably indicating the grey tiles and walls. Grey all around.

"The whole house is monochromic, Joker. Bathrooms aren't exceptional." He made a popping sound with now bare lips, licking the scar on the bottom lip.

"Ya just _thrive_ in _rules_ , doncha, little assassin?" He came inside, lowering his bulk on the chair. Clara took it as a sign to put a plate full of steaming ragu in front of the man. "If _grey_ , then _everythin_ ' grey. If _red_ , then not _blue_. If _good_ , then not ba- _d_."

She took the opposite seat, with a cup of tea between those long, bony fingers. The Joker spooned out a chunk of beef, tenderly put it into his mouth and carefully chewed, savouring the taste of meat and spices. When the bite was swallowed, his eyes, brown rather than black under the kitchen lights, found Clara's gaze. "So, uh, _Joker_? No _Jackie_ -boy?" Taking a sip of her tea, Clara examined the criminal who looked awfully similar to any other normal man, sitting in front of her.

"I have no intentions to cause discomfort." Gently tapping the rim of her cup, Clara continued. "I have faced a fair share of cruelty and pain, Joker, and I have also induced it myself. Weirdly enough, you're not in my bad books yet, for me to want to cause you pain." The Joker chewed for a minute, not saying anything. He was a neat eater, surprisingly. For such a destructive man to have so well-developed manners were something from the field of anecdotes. Laughed at and joked about, but almost never heard about in real life.

"Such a _kind_ heart that you have there, underneath _ribs_ and that, uh, _ship._ " Sending her way a toothy grin, void of any discolouration now, he lightheartedly mocked Clara's choice of art. The plate was empty, so she stood up and took it to the sink. "The food was _good_. A nice, uh, _change_ from the _usual_ fast-food delivery."

"I can't imagine the horrors of what they put in those boxes. MSG and mouldy months-old leftovers." For a moment, Clara silently cleaned Joker's plate and her cup, rinsing them thoroughly. "Once, I sent a tiny amount of garlic sauce from a delivered pizza to the lab. I wanted to prove to my friend that there, in fact, was a living culture, some kind of toxic bacteria inside. That the hygiene conditions were extremely poor. What they found was fresh, less than twelve hours old semen in the sauce. Some guy had a thing for jerking off in garlic sauces." The woman smiled, seeing disgust showing on Jack's face.

"Are you, uh, _tellin_ ' me I have been doing _blowjobs_ for _numerous_ men without, uh, _knowin'_ it?"

"I never said that. I only informed you of the lab results." A slow smile spread on Clara's face, exposing sharp canine rudiments, one of the few almost completely disappeared parts, which indicated the woman's physical heritage from the natural, wild environment.

" _Women_ and their, uh, _timing_. I have _just_ eaten."

"Poor boy. Wanna this big bad assassin rub your back, huh? Might help with relieving general, non-pregnancy nausea." Imitating a soothing smile as accurately as she could, Clara allowed her natural accent to come through, aiming for the kind British grandma's character.

" _Sur_ -r-re. Should I, uh, _hit_ the _lights_?" With a matching grin of his own, Joker - or more like Jack at the moment - responded to her teasing. It didn't last for long though. It was close to two A.M., and Clara had to be at work in the morning. Furthermore, she was positively sure that the man in front had to do some blowing up and killing too. Keeping up with his reputation.

"You already know where the bathroom is. I will leave you a towel if you want to take a shower and a blanket. Sweet nightmares, J." The woman felt his gaze on her back when she left the kitchen, first delivering a clean blanket and a pillow, and then a towel on top. Then she finally made her way to the bathroom, not wasting her time, taking record time to shower, put on her nighttime t-shirt, and finally close herself inside the bedroom.

Somnolence took over her body, and she would have fallen asleep, if not for a silent, barely audible creak of the door to her room. Something warm and heavy, hefty enough to weigh down the mattress, snug underneath _her_ _own_ blanket, humming and tooting quietly, tugging at one end of it.

"Are you deaf or something? I told you to stay downstairs, Joker."

"Yeah? Bu- _t_ ya also told me to have swee- _t_ _nightmares_. I figured out ya wanted me to find the, uh, _biggest_ and scariest one."

 _Song of the chapter: Depeche Mode - Policy Of Truth_


	8. Intimate Interactions

The next morning, after the clock went off, or rather together with the clock, Clara woke up in a bed that was just too warm. Turning to her left side, with the eyes of a scientist, she examined the back of a murderer, a criminal, just _a_ _man_. He had a rather muscular, symmetrical backside, she noted. Joker's musculature was well-developed, keeping up with his lifestyle of destruction and chaos. With the mindset of both a doctor and an athlete, the woman admired a nicely-built physique when she saw one. But unlike bodybuilders, the man didn't have individual fibres protruding through the skin, which meant that the little fat which the Joker was carrying on him kept his hormones, particularly testosterone, in check. Explained a lot, huh?

Turning back, Clara slowly crept out of bed, trying not to crack any of her joints. Sneaking out of her own bedroom, she took her workout clothes with herself. Throwing one last look towards the metaphorical lover in her bed, still sleeping soundly, the woman exited, making her way towards the kitchen. Chugging a glass of water first, Clara changed her sleeping shirt into a sports bra and a loose t-shirt, putting on a pair of sweatpants, too. Taking a bottle of cold green tea from the fridge, she manoeuvred towards the garage where her home gym was equipped. A punching bag, that's what occupied her whole attention this morning. And whilst the poor thing suffered, the woman's mind was racing.

The Joker was a neat eater, she noticed that yesterday. _Today,_ Clara had to remindherself that they came home at two A.M., which meant that the surgeon had three hours of sleep. And that's at most, as she had no idea when exactly did she fall asleep, sensing a warm body behind.

The man was also a neat sleeper. The whole time he kept to himself, an immobile wall of bones and muscles laying on his side, just like herself. _Punch._ The covers that normally would lay unused, were occupied by Jack, but that's it. _Kick._ Not even an inch of her own was taken. Clara stopped for a moment, making her way towards where the bottle of green tea was placed, and taking a huge gulp.

His behaviour confused her. Completely and utterly. For someone as destructive, as chaotic, as unpredictable as the man, she wouldn't be surprised for him to be a complete maniac while eating. Throwing food everywhere and making as much mess as he physically could. As calamitous in bed as a hurricane. None of that came. Apparently, his tendencies for annihilation were reserved for the outer world. But that was not what concerned Clara the most. The devil always hides in the details. Joker's behaviour was somewhat mindless, effortless as if he was used to such manners from a young age. It was a paradox, a discrepancy. The woman had enough therapy talks with Crane to call herself somewhat an amateur in psychology. She knew that, unless one had a bipolar disorder, the patterns of his character carries through both his personal and impersonal life. Let's say, the Joker _decided_ , consciously chose to be, well, bad. That means that he would be evil throughout the day and night, not eliminating any possible situations when he could destroy something because it was a mindful _choice_.

Clara herself had a rather hard time following the line of thought now. It was like a fish underneath the water. If the man was mentally ill, the behaviour may alter depending on his mood, environment, but he didn't seem delusional enough to be considered a psycho. The Joker could be ill indeed, and those table and bed manners simply remained after being taught a long time ago. Habits that were strong enough to fight the river of madness. To break through the cage of insanity. Or... He could be just... Jack.

With a sigh, Clara went back and continued torturing the leather bag full of sand for half an hour more, before deciding it was enough. The man, not even being near, managed to give Clara a headache. A headache and sore knuckles. Even those long-time-hardened areas of skin couldn't take that much of constant pounding. Patches of red and purple started forming, some of them transforming into light scratches that bled a little. That happened every time Clara omitted gloves and lashed out on the rough material barehanded.

The surgeon gulped down the last drops of the cool tea, revelling in the moisture on her tongue. Her throat was of the same humidity as Sahara. Creeping back upstairs and opening the door to her bedroom silently, she took off her t-shirt, wiping off the sweat of her face with it. The woman was drenched, salty drops running down on the floor, leaving a trail behind. Except the trail was not made of crumbs for the crows to eat.

"And _here_ I thought you would, uh, _leave_ me like a one-night stan- _d_." That nasal, gruff from sleep voice reached Clara's ears, making her stop whatever she was doing and turn to the bed where the Joker laid, both hands underneath his head, staring leisurely at the woman.

"I don't leave them. My one-night stands typically are somebody that I'm already friends with." She continued drying herself, feeling the clown's eyes on herself. "That way, they can make me some morning coffee, we say our goodbyes, and don't see each other for another year or so. Furthermore, the risk of catching STD is much lesser when you know who you're sleeping with."

"Yeah. But _where's_ the _thrill_ in that, little assassin?" A confused expression made its way on Clara's face. She dropped the t-shirt-towel on a chair and ambled towards the bed where Jack was. Sitting on top with her legs crossed in a Buddha pose, hands on her knees. Curiosity was written over her angular features, slight amusement inside the deep, misty eyes.

"I beg your pardon?"

The Joker made an abstract motion with his hands, licking his lips. " _Thrill_. Ya _leave_ them and _watch_ their _misery_." Low giggles erupted from deep within his chest. "Girlies get attached _so-o-o_ _easily._ "

"And you get pleasure just from emotional harassing?" Clara tilted her head, examining the man in front of her. She followed one of his hands slowly sneaking closer, reaching for her leg and poking kneecap. "I understand that an actual anarchist must be original and rebellious in every field. I _really_ do, but the purpose of finding a one-night stand is for sex, not for psychological torture." His fingers started gently hammering now, keeping Clara's unwavering attention.

"Yeah? _Y'can_ achieve pleasure on your own, _toots_. Canno- _t_ , uh, _hurt_ yourself." With his last words, the clown squeezed Clara's quad, a little above the ending of a tear-shaped vastus medialis, making her whole body twitch. "Does it _tickle_?"

"Hmm." The woman hummed in confirming, moving her leg away in an attempt to get rid of Joker's hand. Grinning, he leaned forward on an elbow, with mischief glinting in his brown eyes. But Clara was far from feeling delighted. She met his mirth with serious grey eyes. "You will not be able to hurt me, Joker."

" _Really_? How about, uh, _disrupt_ your _or-r-_ rder? Sounds promisin', _huh_?" Jack flashed her a toothy grin, stretching his scars. This time, Clara gave him a one-sided smirk, too.

"And how will you do that? By showing up every night and continuously stealing my guns?" The surgeon lifted her eyebrows, playing his game of teasing. "As long as you leave my bazooka, I'm cool with your kleptomaniac behavior. That old thing is the only one that I wouldn't forgive you for stealing. And the early sixteenth-century Japanese katana sword, that one is probably my favourite."

" _No-o-o_ , little assassin. By _showin'_ you the _world_ that y'could have _underneath_ your fee- _t_." Now he was so close to Clara that she could feel the man's breath on her lips. Steel bore into the abyss, falling, falling, falling down, until she forcefully tore her gaze, concentrating on Joker's fingers instead, with unexpected gentleness massaging Clara's leg.

"Your tongue is trying to poison someone who's already been envenomed a long time ago, J." The woman abruptly stood up, watching the clown's hand drop down. "Do you need a spare t-shirt or something?" She motioned towards his naked chest, showing Jack the acknowledgement of his lack of clothing. The man threw her a sceptical look.

"I ge _-t_ that ya work out and _stuff_ , but you're not, uh, _that_ big." It snapped something inside Clara, making her smile, showing those straight teeth of hers that rarely saw daylight. She could embrace his humorous replicas.

"Seriously? And here I thought we were the same size. Almost."

" _Nah_. Not ye- _t_." Joker's eyes lingered on Clara's body, taking in the exposed upper body, inked skin, small to medium scars that once lacerated her lightly segmented torso, long, powerful limbs and veins, lots of raised lines on her body. " _Although_ I must say I prefer my women, uh, _softer._ _Rounder-r-r._ " He flashed her his teeth, making circular motions with hands. "A _little_ more _meaty_. Y'know, there's quite a lot to _grab_ on, bu- _t_ uh, not enough to _pinch_. Isn't a little fat _good_ for ya?"

"You're totally right, Doctor J. Your knowledge of the human body is completely up-to-date."

"Y'don't need to be a _genius_ to _see_ women get preggo and _fat_. Which means it's something natural. _Normal_." Joker noticed her rub a particularly ugly scar, as jacked and uneven as his own, on her lower stomach. As if feeling his gaze, the surgeon stopped, dropping her hand back to where it was before.

"It definitely is. Except I have no intentions of becoming a child-bearer. I'm designed to be as effective as possible in my field. If I can't stand on my feet the whole day, I will have to quit." Before the woman could say anything else, her phone on a nightstand started vibrating. She took three large steps, picking up the device. "Yes?" Jack kept his dark orbs on her, noticing the way her body language revealed her distaste for whatever was said on the other line. "Keep the pressure as low as possible, otherwise aorta will burst open. Will be there in an hour." Clara threw him a quick look. "I believe you will find your way out? If you change your mind, there should be a shirt of your size somewhere in there." The woman motioned towards her closet, her mind apparently somewhere else.

She didn't wait for his acknowledgement, rushing to the bathroom with a pile of clean clothes in hand. Fifteen minutes later, the man heard her silent steps darting down, a slam of the front door and a turned on engine. That was a different level of ignorance - _or foolishness_ \- that the Joker acknowledged in this strange woman. Who the hell was she? Who the _fuck_ would sleep with a murderer breathing down her neck, leave him in her own house trusting the anarchist enough to not burn it down to ashes? Chuckling to himself, the man laid down once more, stretching his long limbs, occupying the whole bed. Perhaps she was just as crazy as himself. \

Like a dog, he caught a gust of the surgeon's scent lingering in the room. Something spicy and heavy. Joker remembered smelling something similar in a spice cupboard, evading his senses, numbing the ability to smell anything else. _Clove_. It wasthe _clove_ that the assassin smelled of. _Clove_ , reminding Jack of cold winter evenings, fireplace, burning wood and smoke. The stupid aroma of _clove_ , fluttering around with invisible wings, reminding of its owner.

Whilst Joker was muttering incoherent words underneath his breath, lying in Clara's bed, the woman herself tried to stop a man from bleeding to death, his main artery sliced open. His girlfriend, a chubby little lady with platinum blonde hair, cry-shrieked what had happened. Her boyfriend tried to show a magic trick. Instead of landing where it was supposed to be in the first place, the sharp knife cut his neck open, releasing a spurt of red blood. Luckily for him, it was not a deep cut, but it should have hurt horribly, life juices seeping out with every thud of the man's heart.

When Clara was done saving his existence, she closed herself in her room where a half-finished house of cards remained during the week. For a few moments, the woman did nothing but stare at this fragile construction, analyzing possible improvements in its setting. Not much could be done, anyway. She was a creature of perfection, after all, making sure the first time doing anything was an accomplishment of the highest effort. The majority of times optimal results were achieved through planning beforehand.

Speaking about beforehand planning and informing, in Clara's life people rarely used to do that. For some reason they believed that she had some kind of sorceress's capabilities to determine what's inside of their heads and therefore know when they decide to pay a visit. She didn't, and therefore in her early years had to endure long and painful visits of human beings that the woman wanted nothing to do with. Nowadays, it changed a little, mainly because she didn't have friends who surprised her anymore. Nevertheless, Clara still lacked the ability to guess when somebody decides to come over. This is what happened now when a quiet knock reached the surgeon's ears, startling Clara from her musing.

"Come in." As she turned around, a tired-looking man opened the door and closed it behind himself.

"I wasn't sure whether I should call you first, or just come here and wait. I remember you saying something about your aversion to phones, so I decided to wait here. I figured out it would be just a matter of minutes till you come anyway." His words sounded rightfully justificated as if a solid excuse to interrupt her day in a personal, physical way.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Wayne?" Clara's words brought a sad smile to the man's face, tired brown eyes pleading. She didn't know what for.

"Back to the last name basis already?"

"Our ways crossed once, Bruce. Once, with the purpose of creating an illusion of a solid wall of friends behind the White Knight's back. Unfortunately, there are no other ties within us to keep two pieces from dissipating." The woman turned once more, taking in the tiny construction. _There_. If she twisted that card on the left, the house might hold its shape a tiny bit better.

"If... If my primal intentions hurt you as a person, I apologize. I really enjoyed your company, Clara." The surgeon felt him nearing her, heat from his body moving towards her own. "And it doesn't have to end with the party."

"We will see." Silence enveloped them, a dark-haired woman with eyes of steel, and a man dressed in a suit, his coiffure resembling a crow's nest. "Bad sleep?"

"You could say so. Rough night, Joker and everything."

"I hope Rachel's alright? I've heard she was thrown out through the window?"

"She was. Luckily, the Batman got his priorities correctly." Bruce's voice got strange, losing its previous friendly tune. Humming lowly underneath her breath, Clara let him know that his words were acknowledged, neither agreed nor disagreed with. The Batman was something that the woman didn't want to discuss, especially now, when her theories still needed confirmation.

"I will think about your... Proposition. For now, I'm not sure whether I want to start another friendship."

"That complicated, is it?" A light laugh tore through his mouth, filling the room with a rather pathetic and weak, but warm and soothing sound. "I mean, new relationships. It's not that I'm asking for marriage, Clara. The only thing that I want is your occasional company."

"Feeling lonely, Mr Wayne?" She lightheartedly joked, finally facing him. The man was closer than the surgeon expected, uncomfortably so. "If there is a hole in your heart, I don't have the tools to fill it, you know." Clara decided to test the waters, not going too deep, staying where the shallow waters remained.

"And you don't have to. I assure you." She studied his expression, the change in mood, tiny emotions playing on those handsomely sculpted facial features. "Besides, Lucius will be able to have some more free time, as you can kick _my_ hind. I'm not that bad in fighting myself."

"Are you?" He dug his own grave inside Clara's head. Pieces fit. Pieces found correct places. It took only one woman and her analytical mind, few conversations and a throughout studying of behavior, and suddenly she saw not a billionaire, but something else standing in front of her. "Then I will definitely look forward to our sparring session." The surgeon was saved by an old nurse, the same one that had been here the first time when Bruce paid her a visit. "But now, I'm afraid, we need to cut this conversation short. Patients are losing their patience." Throwing him a one-sided smile, reminding more of a quick, forceful twitch of lips, Clara nodded to the greying woman, indicating that her appearance in operating room will be made soon.

"Of course. Don't forget my words, Clara." Bruce turned around, leaving her, allowing the cool gaze caress his retreating back.

"I won't, Bat. Oh, I won't." She murmured underneath her breath, making sure her words were too low for anybody to hear. The man was safe, his secret, his identity hidden within dark cavities that resembled Clara's mind. The woman didn't see a need to expose anything, not now, not anytime soon, possibly never. She had enough respect for other's efforts to recreate themselves, as she knew what it meant to collect shattered, remaining pieces of yourself and try to glue them together in attempt to undo the damage. She didn't want to be a destructive force.

Facing the unfinished house again, Clara finally reached for the only imperfectly placed card. Slowly, oh so slowly she dragged it forward, improving the overall structure. Staring at it, her mind went silent, state of nothingness enveloping the woman. With empty, cold eyes she sat there, not thinking about anything in particular, just lightly tracing half-finished house. With weird finality that came out of nowhere, her consciousness abruptly back once more, Clara took out one single card from the bottom. The Joker. It was Joker's card. Holding it between her bony fingers, with fascination she followed the pieces falling down, flying everywhere, taking up space of her whole table. It was an end and a beginning to something. The woman just wasn't sure for what. Yet.

 _Song of the chapter: Arctic Monkeys - The Jeweller's Hands_


	9. Good

That evening Clara came home with a relatively merry mood. Destroyed house of cards was like a mental click, a symbol of something. The finality gave her peace, allowing enjoyment and satisfaction with life bubble inside. Open windows, light gusts of wind blowing inside, a fast car and raging music. What else would she wish for at this moment?

Nearing her house, Clara noticed a large truck with a man-boy sitting in it. A pile of logs laid behind. After stopping next to it, she got out of the Mustang, getting closer to the youngster in a slow, calculated pace.

"Excuse me, sir?" Her addressing met deaf ears. She waved with her hand, trying to get his attention. "Blind? Huh?" No, she doubted he was blind. After all, the boy did drive a car. His eyes were closed, and headphones plugged inside his ears. "I will do either something stupid or horrific if you don't answer me right now." Not waiting for his response, she pulled out the tiny devices. The man immediately opened his eyes and with unpleasant surprise watched the tall creature in front of him rip the cords of his headphones. "Now we can talk."

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?! Do you know how much money did it..."

"No, but I don't mind paying you. Now, why those logs are not split?" He stayed silent, staring at Clara, not exactly getting what she just said. "Am I talking in a foreign language? Should I repeat myself in French? Dutch? Russian? Sorry, don't speak German. Although you don't look like one."

"American. And stay away from me, psycho." His eyes narrowed, keeping an alert watch on her.

"I asked you a question."

"You didn't ask for chopped wood."

"I haven't asked for any in the first place, boy." She met his confused gaze, lifting one eyebrow. "You dropped it in the wrong location."

"C'mon, seriously? I have to stack it all back now?!" Disappointment overtook his irritation, the dread of failure greater than the anger of the destroyed device. Those logs were huge, after all, and the boy seemed just out of his teens, still lanky and slim, a baggy t-shirt freely flowing in gusts of wind.

"When I think about it... I actually might need some firewood for my fireplace. How much does this whole pile cost, again?" Clara saw him staring at her, like seeing a ghost. _Or a mad person._

"You're crazy, ma'am."

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear the number?"

"Two hundred fifty bucks. And thirty for earphones." Rolling her eyes, the woman gave him his desired number. She got tired of this child, wanting nothing more but to get rid of him. Clara didn't even question the sum, not trying to guess whether she overpays him. The surgeon rarely cared about money nowadays. As a war volunteer, she was funded throughout her whole time in Israel, allowing her to save up a rather significant, round sum of money in her account. The self-murderers were paid well. Enough to allow the woman to get through her life without the need to work. Combining that with her monthly salary as a surgeon, and Clara found herself in a place where she didn't need to care for her expenses. That's where the quality chops of meat came, and not exactly seasonal vegetables. That and the Belgian chocolate that she enjoyed so much.

He packed up quickly, throwing one last, weird look her way as she gave back his torn headphones. He was followed by cold, grey eyes until the empty truck was hidden by forest.

"Now what? Do I have to split the wood myself?" Clara was sure she had an axe somewhere inside the house. It wasn't dark yet, and won't be for a couple more hours, so the woman decided to take care of this unexpected little problem immediately. And she did find it in the basement indeed, exactly where it had been put when Clara's garage gym was set up. Taking it with her, the woman went towards a huge pillar, almost of her own height, of soon-to-be firewood, chose a particularly large log as a base to put the wood on, and started chopping.

A whole hour later, a black van pulled into her driveway. With a surprised look in her eyes, Clara watched Joker step out, in his full attire, face paint slightly smudged, but everything else in place.

" _Honey-y-y_ , I'm _ho-o_ -ome." Giggling loudly, he strode towards the sweaty woman, taking in their surroundings. "Am I, uh, already _late_? Already started withou- _t_ _me_?" Grinning, he finally made it to where she stood, a puzzled expression projected on her face. " _Why_ a long face, little assassin?"

"I wasn't exactly expecting your visit."

"A _good_ husband _never_ leaves his wife, toots. In _sickness_ and _health_."

And he did exactly that, never left her, simply watching Clara split the firewood and grinning whenever she threw him a dirty look. Taking in the obvious enjoyment that he didn't even try to hide, suspicion started bubbling inside her head. His timing, apparent knowledge of what had happened, and the previous confusion of the youngster were somewhat unusual. Clara smelled a rat.

"You didn't have a hand in this, did you?"

"Of _course_ I did. I, uh, take _care_ of those _dear_ to me." The clown endured a furious, freezing look that was thrown his way, combating it with one of his grins.

"You mean, _near_ to you. 'Keep your friends close, and enemies closer', huh?"

"You're _parannoyed_ , little assassin. Just, uh, keep _choppin'_." The man waved with his hand, motioning her to keep going. With a deep breath, Clara did exactly that, silently muttering how she would murder the clown.

The surgeon managed to count thirty-two ways of how to dispose of his body, but finally, even her curses ended, enveloping them in comfortable nothingness. When silence stretched too much, Joker decided to break it. "So, uh, you _had_ done this before?"

"This?"

"The _splitting_ of firewood."

"I have. Both in my years of youth and in the army." Rhythmical sounds echoed around, occasionally disturbed by a specifically stubborn piece.

"Did you have, uh, _merry_ childhood, toots?" Joker took a seat on another log, keeping his black eyes on the working woman. The evening started settling in, slowly but surely drowning them both in the soft darkness.

"My perspective of merriness might differ from other's, Joker."

"I'm no- _t_ asking what _others_ would think about your past. I'm _askin'_ _you_." There was a short pause that the man knew better not to disturb. He was a manipulative creature, knowing how to get the desired reaction. Clara understood that all too well, too, having already experienced similar tricks and approaches. It was the same mindset that Jonathan used to approach when he needed information. Be silent and just stare, until the victim caves in. They always do.

"Well," hitting a particularly thick branch, she split it in two. "my father was a gambler, and a drug dealer. My mother was a junkie. We lived," Another hit, two more pieces falling away. "in a nice two-story house, filled with needles and heroin in every corner. Sometimes, I used to play a nurse with them. When they had been out cold, veins filled with some kind of shit, I'd have walked around them, pretending to take care of the laying bodies. Having them unconscious definitely had its perks. I could draw out blood for 'analysis', and they didn't notice. Not once." Chuckling without actual mirth in her tone, Clara swung the ax, hitting so hard that not only it split another firewood, but also burrowed itself in the base log. "I had my happy time for sure. But then there used to be some downfalls, too. When mommy didn't get her fix, she would hit the little caretaker, blaming her for using everything and not leaving any for her."

"Explains your _fucked up_ mindset."

"Perhaps. Every time she did that, I would say 'Good' to myself. Hit me? Good. Do it again. Hard? Good. Will not mind a weaker hit later. When things were going bad, there always was something good that came from it. Got injured? Good. Got beat up? Good. Will learn. Unexpected problems? Good. Got an opportunity to figure out the solution." Clara retrieved the tool from its cave, staring into space afterwards, before putting another branch on top and splitting it. "That's it. My childhood regiment translated into my adulthood, the time spent overseas. When things were going bad, I didn't get bummed out. Startled. Frustrated. If I could say the word 'Good', it meant I'm still alive. It meant I'm still breathing. And if I was still breathing, I still got some fight left in me. I would get up, dust off, reload, recalibrate, reengage and go out on the attack." She let out a puff of air, misty eyes gazing into the horizon once more. "This _might_ be the reason for my fucked up mentality indeed." Clara left the axe in the log, brushing off any remaining splits of wood off her pants. The woman turned around then, aiming toward the front door, leaving Joker on his own. The revelation took its toll on her. Not upsetting, but rather making Clara uncomfortable. She was not used to others knowing about her past. It was much easier to pretend having a glamorous family back in Britain, without a dust of imperfection marking it. But unlike Jack, she refused to deny the reality. Clara wanted definition, as nothing else but her identity and character features kept her alive this whole time. Embarrassing or not, it didn't matter that much to her anymore. The woman had to reach the hard bottom to realize that she still had a fresh, clean, immaculate future.

After all, the past is beautiful, because it was in the past, and will remain there. _Behind_ you.

The Joker found her in the kitchen, making something on the countertop. "Whatcha _doin',_ little assassin?"

"Supper. Are you staying over?"

" _Depends_ on what's on the _menu_." Rolling her eyes, Clara reached for the knife, chopping the ends of green beans. It was easy to be around this man. He did question a lot, making her overly uncomfortable at times. He was an anarchist, probably already have a plan of how he will murder her in cold blood. A terrorist, causing only chaos and trouble. But at the same time, he was a gentleman, a metaphorical sweetheart, pushing, but not too far, and then pretending as if nothing happened. Or he simply didn't care enough to memorize things, and therefore did not bring them back on the conversation. Either way, Clara was cool with it.

"Bison top sirloin steak with green beans and roasted cauliflower."

"Sounded like _Chinese_ to me. Can you say tha- _t again_?" Chuckling lowly to himself, he propped himself on a chair behind her.

"Steak and vegetables."

" _That's_ English. A _real_ man's food, huh?"

"I hope it is. Nobody wants a girl to run around in warpaint and purple suit." She continued preparing food in silence, concentrated on searing the meat enough, but not overcook it. "Rare? Medium rare? Well done?"

"M _r-r-r, toots._ " She heard something behind her, felt a light gust of air, and a presence behind. The man stole a piece of vegetable, leaning against the countertop on Clara's right. Unlike the first time, he was still with his paint, and the woman didn't push him to take it off. She did enjoy his bare skin, but not to the point of disturbing his natural habit of hiding behind a skin-tight mask. Slowly, he chewed his stolen trophy, looking straight ahead. "Have ya been to Jerusalem?"

"A few times. Have you?"

" _Nah_ , a _buddy_ of mine has. _Never_ came back. Became _religious_."

"World is full of weirdos, Joker." Clara started plating the food, steaks already rested, juices leaking out and fibres relaxing. "Religion is just another form of a drug for the nation. Just as addictive and sometimes harmful. It's not good when people become obsessed with anything. Gets easier to control them. It's been known for a long time that religious and spiritual experiences are neurologically similar to the euphoria of love and of drug-taking."

" _Opium_ of the people _,_ _huh_?"

"Sounds so intelligent coming from your mouth, Mr Marx Jr."

"'Religion is the _sigh_ of the _oppressed_ creature, the, uh, _heart_ of a _heartless_ world, and the _soul_ of _soulless_ conditions. It is the, uh, _opium_ of the people.'" Jack's grin stretched his scars, exposing yellow teeth. "How'bout tha- _t,_ little assassin?"

"Very impressive, J. I'm completely and utterly bought over."

"I _kne-e-_ ew you had a _thing_ for smar- _t_ men." He watched as the woman put full plates on the table, taking one seat himself and looking at Clara with expectation. "Y'don't have any problems _eatin'_ , d'ya?"

"No. Do I look like I have?" She cut a piece of steak and put it in her mouth, closing her eyes in pure pleasure, savouring the taste.

"I rarely see you ea- _t_. Although ya don't _look_ like one having them, no." Joker too directed his attention towards food, projecting the same manners and neatness as before.

"I eat a lot. But I do it once or twice a day."

" _Why_ 's tha- _t_?"

"By intermittently prohibiting body the food, you force your brain work a little harder. In nature, the state of fasting would indicate a basic starving. You starve - you die. Therefore one needs as much brain power as possible to find something to feast on. If you redirect those abilities towards a particular problem, it gets easier to solve it." With that, for the remaining meal, nothing else was said. They both had a large pile of food in front which had to be finished before going cold. The savoury taste of bison was beautifully accentuated by soft tones of roasted vegetables. If there was something that Clara genuinely enjoyed doing for others, it must have been cooking. Lucius once joked that the woman was made out of stone - you would never hear her confess love, but she will show her fondness by providing you something delicious. Although Clara herself didn't want to agree with this statement.

After finishing his portion, Joker finally asked. "Have you, uh, had _some_ body in your _family_ to learn to make _food_ from?"

"No. The only thing that they knew was how to make a drug cocktail. In Harvard, besides medicine, I also studied Food Science. I really enjoy chemistry, and cooking is exactly that. A bunch of chemical reactions. If you know how to control them, you can get very appetizing results."

"And what abou- _t_ , uh, _other_ chemical reactions? In _brains_ -s-s." His eyes were hooded and dark, two abysses staring at her. There was something going on, and Clara had serious trouble trying to understand this sudden change.

"Hormones? What about them?"

" _How_ d'ya _control_ them?" Jack's voice grew huskier by every second, previous nasality in his tone disappearing. Clara leaned back, examining the man in front.

"You don't. The only thing that you _can_ control is your behaviour."

" _A-a-and_ if I _don't_ wanna control my behaviour?" She could swear he tried to hypnotize her with those black orbs and instilling voice. Sadly enough, she did, in fact, try hypnosis before. Never worked. A complete waste of money.

"Then put a fucking leash on, Joker. What the hell are you trying to do?" With slowly rising impatience, Clara watched his eyebrows narrow, something - _disappointment_ \- glinting in his eyes.

"You, uh, just don'- _t_ _get_ _it_ , d'ya?" Now it was her turn to make an expression of incertitude.

"I'm sorry, I don't get _what_?" Jack rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed with something that she had done. Except Clara wasn't sure what it was. Until...

She was. Staring into the man's eyes, Clara experienced this weird feeling of silent communication. Sometimes it did happen with others, like the other night with Bruce. And at this particular moment, the woman suddenly knew why Joker was exasperated. Like a child who didn't get a Christmas present. A present that might be just as pleasurable to the giver, as it was to the receiver.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Clara lifted her long body and stalked to the other side of the table, lowering herself down to the man's sitting height. She finally understood what the Joker wanted, hinted the whole evening. Putting her hands on his knees, Clara got even closer, kneeling in between the man's legs, gauging for his reaction. None was seen, as he simply stared at her, those hooded eyes suddenly resembling a liquid petroleum. "You know you can't hurt me, right?" The woman's gentle, yet somewhat breaking at the end, tore a grin on his face, seemingly painfully stretching his macabre wounds.

"Shall we see _how_ exceptional you truly _ar-r-_ re?" Keeping eye contact, Clara slowly leaned forward. Instead of going for his mouth, she opted for Jack's scars where the woman planted her first, tender kiss. They didn't feel rough at all underneath soft lips. As predicted, facial skin kept its silkiness even after being horribly damaged. Moving upwards, Clara continued with the gentle caressing, making sure that every inch of those scars was covered in her own molecules. Amusedly, the surgeon thought about DNR that she left behind on Joker's skin. It wouldn't be hard to trace it back to her. She felt the man put his hands on her waist, pulling closer to his core.

"Plates are not cleaned, J." Continuously dragging her lips over his scars, Clara sensually murmured against them. Immediately, she felt Joker tighten his hands, gripping forcefully, almost painfully. Surprisingly, it tore a stifled moan from woman's lips, her chest vibrating with the voiceless sound. "You're making me... Break my domestic rules."

" _Fuck_ the _rules_." With one hand, he grabbed Clara's chin, forcing her to look into his eyes again. She also noticed the lack of red paint on his face, guessing that the majority of it remained on her own lips. "U _-p_."

"Impatient to run away, huh?" The woman smiled, sharp canines exposed, a hungry look in her eyes. And she was hungry, despite just having a large meal. Hungry. Starving. Clara knew it will not lead her anywhere with a happy ending. The last line crossed will be a signature for pain and chaos. Good.

It will hurt like a thousand suns burning her alive. Good.

She will survive. With more fire and life than ever before. Good.

 _Good_.

 _Song of the chapter: Marilyn Manson - Third Day Of A Seven Day Binge_


	10. 3 AM People

The first time Clara was introduced to the world of sex when she was eight, by her own grandfather. Unlike her parents, the old man was not involved with drugs, had a reputable life teaching English Literature at Harvard, projecting the future that she could have had if Clara's mother had never met her husband and followed the steps of an addict.

Granddaddy loved his little rebel, that's what he kept constantly saying. She was such a great, _good_ girl. She would never follow her mother's steps, would she? No, the girl would never do that. Not a chance, right, sweetie?

Clara's grandfather used to take her to his house every weekend, where she was treated like a little princess, the future queen. His maids looked after her when Clara played in the garden, or when she did her minor experiments in the kitchen, never interfering, just smiling brightly and cheerfully when the girl threw a look their way. But Clara was not an actual royal, and the old man kept saying that if she wanted to pretend to be one, there was a price to pay. A tiny, irrelevant price for her loving granddaddy.

He explained how a girl can satisfy a man in the simplest way. Move your hand up and down, honey, and squeeze occasionally. Caress them like the greatest treasure. _Good. Good,_ honey. Such a _talented_ girl. A _quick_ learner.

By the time when Clara was ten, she and her grandfather had an established routine. The girl would be at granddad's on Friday, Saturday and Sunday every week. He would pick her after school. Clara ate lunch with the old man sitting next to her, occasionally asking questions about school, friends, never about his own daughter. The little girl, despite growing in a hardly reputable house herself, knew what being polite meant to the outer society, and had developed her artificial manners. When she would finish her meal, the old man took her to his huge library. It smelled like wood, leather and books. He would sit on a large leather armchair, motion to Clara with his large, long-fingered and elegant hand, and wait patiently till the little girl neared him.

After two years, she already knew what to do. Lowering herself down in front of her granddad, Clara would loosen his belt and with cold, controlled face free the old man's organ, which had already started hardening. Then, just like he had taught her, the girl moved her small hand up and down with an occasional gentle squeeze until grandfather started grunting with his penis vibrating, continuously being stimulated by the granddaughter's hand. With an emotionless face, she would watch and endure it, and only in those steely, cool eyes the disgust, aversion shone when thick, white spurts escaped from underneath her bony fingers. _Good_ girl. You did _so_ well. So _good._ Granddaddy is _so_ proud of you, honey.

The same routine would last the whole weekend. Every day at three P.M. Clara would patiently wait in the large library, stiff but determined, for her grandfather to pay his little lady a visit.

One day, wandering around his large property, the girl noticed something laying on the ground, small and nearly invisible, piping silently underneath a large oak.

Nearing the place, Clara found a baby bird, fallen out of his nest. Too tiny to fly, it was doomed to die in the mouth of a predator - a cat, a hungry rodent, predatory bird or any other small fry. Following some weird voice in her head, the girl picked up this pathetic creature, holding it gently between her long fingers. The bird was covered in soft, fine feathers, its little wings, too weak to hold his own body weight in the air, fluttered aimlessly against Clara's hands. The girl stared at it, cold eyes not giving out any emotion, just following the movement of her own fingers in concentration. Little after little, she started squeezing the creature in her hands, peeping increasing with every second, grip tightening, steely orbs watching.

She didn't hear a snap, didn't feel a burst of the bird's tiny organs. No, the only thing that the girl felt was a vibration. A warm body in her hands, vibrating, giving out, relieving itself, twitching slightly, providing the same feeling as her grandfather's penis, when his semen seeped out of its end. Closing those freezing orbs of hers, Clara allowed herself to pretend that it was her granddad, who she squeezed the life out of. A gentle, clean death, no violence, just... A vibration.

Laying on her stomach, back half-covered and warm fingers tracing the patterns of a crocodile on her back, the present Clara stared through the window at a dark, starless sky, deep in thought. The Joker was silent the whole time, simply listening to the woman telling a story and mindlessly following the inked lines of a reptile, occasionally reaching a scar, which disfigured the large piece in some places.

"Did ya, uh, materialize your _thoughts_ , little assassin?"

"No. And it paid off, as he provided the money and relations needed to study in Harvard." The clock on her nightstand showed three A.M., explaining the lack of light outside.

"No- _t_ even later _,_ _after_ wards, huh?" Disappointment could be heard in Jack's nasal tone, warm finger putting a little more pressure than before. He was not happy, she could tell.

"I don't have the murderous nerve in me, Joker. At least not... Well, not always. Not now."

"So ya le- _t_ a, uh, _paedophile_ live. I expected _mo-o-_ ore of ya, toots." The man didn't notice her momentary inner struggle. A large hand was placed on the small of her back, right above the lumbar vertebrae. Slowly it sneaked upwards, cupping the back of her neck, going even higher, ruffling Clara's black, straight hair in its way. The woman closed her eyes, letting out a tired breath.

"Sorry to let you down." A sarcastic response escaped her lips, making the clown behind chuckle lowly.

Since the supper a few hours ago, they had a vigorous beginning of the night, completely devastating her bedroom. Strong, flexible bodies allowed enough room for experiments and animalism, wearing both Jack and the woman off. At that time, drunk with pleasure and lust, she didn't pay attention to their actions. But now, when Clara's head cleared up, it started hurting just thinking about all the cleaning that had to be done in the morning. Thankfully, it was early Saturday morning, a sea of free time ahead.

"Are ya, uh, on the _pill_?" A question came near her ear, warm breathing could be felt on Clara's skin.

"Makes me emotional." The woman felt him stiffen up, harsh breathing becoming the only indication of someone alive.

"Did I _knock_ ya u- _p_? Was this, uh, a womanly tra- _p_?" Notes of exasperation could be heard in his tone, his suspicious nature coming through. Clara rolled her now opened eyes. Although it was a foolish assumption, she had to admit that Joker had a point. Still, she could swear that sometimes he was more paranoid than herself.

"No, you didn't impregnate me, and I have no intentions to trap you anywhere. Free to go, whenever and wherever."

" _How_ could ya be so _sur_ - _r_ -re, toots?" She felt him relax once more, starting to comb her hair with his fingers.

"I have my ways."

"How, uh, _trustworthy_ are those _ways_?"

"Very reliable, J."

"How _much_ reliable?" The man had no intentions of giving up, apparently, and it started to annoy Clara. "Don't wanna, uh, little _clowns_ runnin' around, little assassin. Jus- _t you_ and _me_ -e-e."

"Women rarely get pregnant when they have no organs to carry children in, Joker." The irritation could be heard in her husky tone. Clara rolled on her back, her breasts bounced free from the pressure of her body, immediately drawing Joker's eyes towards them. "Not there, boy. A little lower." She tapped an ugly, jagged scar on her lower abdomen, just above the covers that sat on her hip bones. Leaving a pair of jiggly boobs alone, Jack followed the lines of segmented torso, reaching the indicated place. Hooded eyes took in the slight curve of it, moon providing enough light to notice its abnormality. Just like his own Glasgow smile, the scar probably didn't heal well in the first place, resulting not in a thin, white line like the majority of Clara's past wounds, but an ugly, deep, rosy hollow.

"No- _t_ very pretty, huh? Explains your _obsession_ with my _smile_." He tapped it lightly. "Couldn't move your _mouth_ off of them. Doe- _s_ it make you _relate_ to me a little, uh, _more_?"

"Don't put your words in my mouth."

"Tha- _t_ , or the fact that we've had something, uh, _similar_ happen in our _pasts,_ toots?" The woman turned to him, serious eyes seeking his own amused ones.

"There are a few flaws in your hypothesis, J."

" _Rea_ lly?"

"Hmm. The first one being the fact that you actually have no idea whether or not our pasts have any similarities. At least in terms of those." She motioned towards his mouth, noticing the way they constantly moved even without him talking.

"Le- _t_ it be. And the _second_ one?"

"Well, if I understood correctly, you are implying that my... Let's call it attraction, shall we? My attraction towards you is based on the fact that we're somewhat similar. But," Clara let out a small yawn. The night has finally started to catch up with her. "that would mean that couples create relationships that are based on their similarities when in reality it's hardly the truth. Extroverts attract introverts. Cholerics seek for phlegmatics. You might not want to admit it, but we unconsciously look for a balance."

 _"_ I'm no- _t_ sayin' we're the _same_. I said we have something _in_ _common_. A, uh, _speck_. A tiny _fraction_. I, uh, wouldn't _survive_ if I were as _crazy_ as ya, toots."

"So it's me who's a lunatic now?"

" _Yeah._ " Silence enveloped them for a moment. Clara started to doze off, sweet slumber in hand's reach. Except, the tiresome man had other plans. "So I fucked _someone_ who's not even a _real_ woman then, huh?" She snapped her eyes open, throwing him a murderous look. Joker grinned, exposing his white teeth. The makeup had worn off, leaving the man barefaced, whilst her pillows were stained with white, red and black paint.

"My ovaries are inside, idiot. I still maintain a normal level of estrogen, get periods, experience PMS moodiness. Also, I have a real, non-artificially made vagina. The only thing that can't happen is an embryo develop in my non-existing uterus."

"You're gettin' _brave_ with _names_ again, little assassin. _Careful_ with them." He licked his lips, caressing the bare skin. "Don- _t_ get angry with _me,_ if the _actual_ problem lies somewhere _else,_ toots _._ "

"I'm not angry. I'm annoyed. There is a difference." She lifted one eyebrow, following him as Joker started tracing the lines of her tattoos once more. "You know, it's relatively useful to recognize your own emotions. Eliminates the confusion that comes with them. Easier to maintain logical mind when you know what's your trigger and what you actually feel."

"You spend too much time with, uh, _Scarecrow_. Too _much_ self-reflection." His fingers reached the intricate ornament of a ship in a stormy sea above her left breast, a rather large area of inked skin, covering half of her chest and shoulder. "What's this- _s_? Black _Pear-r-_ rl, huh?"

"Are you _serious_?"

"A man can't _know_. _Especially_ when the topic involves, uh, _you-u_." Another deep breath, just so she could control herself and not punch the grinning face looming above her.

"The Flying Dutchman."

"I thought ya aren't, uh, _religious_ , little assassin."

"You mean, the ship's in Christian mythology reference to Noah's Ark? Although there are some speculations about the analogy between the Flying Dutchman and Noah's Ark, these ships in modern symbology tend to be separated."

"Then what's the, uh, _myth_ behind i- _t_?"

"Well, there are a few. My favourite one - about a German ship called the Flying Dutchman, captained by the evil Hendrick Van der Decken, who decides to travel towards the Cape of Good Hope."

"Doesn't seem too, uh, _intriguing_ to _me_ -e, toots."

"Well, you haven't heard the whole story, J. Don't judge a book by its cover."

" _Okay_ , so what happene- _d_ then? To the, uh, _evil_ captain? _Why_ is his _ship_ on your _tit_?" Clara rolled her eyes, feeling Joker's gaze on her chest.

"Captain Van der Decken was famous for being a rough and violent man, who had no fear of anything or anybody. While approaching the Cape of Good Hope, a storm stroke the ship with high waves, hard winds and lightning. The captainyelled against God and invoked the Devil, promising that if he allowed him to pass the Cape, he could take his soul. It's said that the Devil accepted his offer, but when he came to take his soul, the clever captain asked for one last wish. He wanted to play chess with him. To taunt the Devil himself." A slow grin tore through Clara's chapped lips, showing Joker a predatory smile, accentuate by those unusually sharp, almost animalistic canines. "If the Devil wins, he can take his soul. But he didn't, and Van der Decken was able to postpone the day on which the Devil would eventually take his soul."

"Have _you_ postponed the _big_ day, little assassin? That's why the _great_ captain is constantly caressing your boo- _b_?"

"I never said so. There are many more legends about the ship. But this one fascinates me the most."

" _Weirdo._ "

"Clown." He pulled a strand of her hair painfully, showing his displeasure. "Joker!" The woman slapped his hand away, at the same time kicking him underneath the covers. Hearing Jack hiss lowly, she smirked a little, moving away, to the very corner of the bed so he wouldn't reach her to get his revenge.

" _Sadist._ " The word was meant to infuriate her, except the mirth in his voice told an entirely different story.

"You have _no_ idea, boy. Will experience only a glimpse of my sadistic tendencies in the morning." They both went quiet, the man continuously tracing some weird ornaments on her skin. A few minutes went by, neither of them uttering a word.

"I, uh, wanna _attend_ the funeral service for _Commissioner_ Loeb. _Tomorrow_." Clara jerked her head towards him immediately, staring at the man with unhidden seriousness in her steely eyes.

"What the hell are you intending to do now, Joker? The ceremony will be heavily monitored by security on all sides, in case _you_ decided t show up."

" _Yeah_? Wha- _t_ about _becomin'_ a part of security _my_ self?"

"Are you _suicidal_?" Clara went silent for a moment, looking at him with unwavering, cold eyes that were glinting slightly in the moonlight. "If you want to leave this world, you could have asked me."

" _Nah_ , no- _t_ leave, little assassin. Ya don't get me." Annoyed, he made a weird sound with his lips. "The _Mayor_. He causes too much _trouble_. Needs to be, uh, _removed_."

"You're not suicidal. You're delusional. Manoeuvring into a crowd of security guards with clown's makeup and hope that nobody will notice you?" The woman let out an unamused bark of laughter.

"Y're basically _callin_ ' me stupid. I'm no- _t_. Tell me, toots. Would ya, uh, call me _dangerous_ if y'would see me _bare_ faced? _Huh_?" It made Clara narrow her eyes, staring at a rather handsome man laying on his side. Truth to be told, those scars of his could not hide a sensual curve of his lips, strong, angular face, a well-pronounced jaw and deep brown eyes staring back at her.

"No."

" _If_ this, uh, _gorgeous_ man became an honour guard, with the whole attire and a stupid _cap_ on his head, would ya see something _suspicious_ about him?"

"Probably not."

"Then _think_ , little assassin. With your hea- _d_ , and not your little, black hear- _t_." Holding Joker's gaze, Clara allowed the last part about her heart slip through her ears, paying attention to what was important. Examining the surgeon's expression, Jack knew exactly when the realization finally hit her, analytical brain cracking the puzzle that the Joker put in front of her. A weird look made its way on Clara's face, something cold and completely detached from the emotional impact. Those steely eyes suddenly looked more blue than grey in the dim light, and the man felt as if something ancient and gloomy stared at him through the small windows that were the weird woman's eyes.

"Do what you have to do, clown. Except for this time I will not be able to save your unprepared ass." Joker grinned, hearing the accent of her roots coming back into her voice. Usually, it was well-hidden behind a facade of perfectly pronounced r's and lack of schwas, only fraud of the woman's true identity.

"Uh, _so-o-o_ attached _already_ , little assassin?" He grinned, inching closer to the creature with frigid eyes that took his sweet, murderous woman's place. "No- _t_ that I don't feel _honoured_ , toots. Don't, uh, get me _wrong_." Joker got even closer, seeing the ice slowly melting, familiar orbs staring back at him. "Let's sleep. Tomorrow is a _huge_ day for me. Don't wanna, uh, the lack of beauty sleep ruin my _gorgeous_ appearance."

"You're an idiot."

" _Nah_. You're just no- _t_ as _smar-r-_ rt as I am, toots." Clara could see his face clearly now as he was so close to her own, dark abysses closed, facial muscles relaxed and peaceful. She knew that he would drift off to sleep any moment now, Jack was _that_ efficient at controlling his own body. When she was sure that he was already in a deep slumber, the woman slowly inched forward, examining intently that handsome, disfigured face, at the same time silently murmuring a quote of Poe underneath her breath that she remembered reading a long time ago.

 _"_ _The ship and all in it are imbued with the spirit of Eld. The crew glide to and fro like the ghosts of buried centuries, their eyes have an eager and uneasy meaning, and when their figures fall athwart my path in the wild glare of the battle-lanterns, I feel as I have never felt before..._ _"_

 _Song of the chapter: Tool - Parabol + Parabola_


	11. Honor

Three hours of sleep. That was all that Clara managed to get before waking up, a violent jerk disturbing her slumber. With a deep groan somewhere within her chest, she peered her bloodshot eyes open, taking in a wet, naked man crouched in front of her. Apparently, the Joker did have a shower and now grinned at the woman like a madman, white, straight teeth bared in a nothing-good-promising smile.

"Hon _e-y-y-y_? Are ya _awake_?" Jack's dark brown eyes met murderous grey gaze, accentuated by the red colour around.

"Apparently I am, sweet pea." She rolled on her other side, away from the man, tugging the covers over her head in an attempt to block out both the light, hurting her sensitive eyes, and the amused look on his face. Both were equally irritating.

"Where ya _goin_ ', toots? Don- _t_ , uh, run _away_. Wake- _y_ up, ya _lazy_ woman." Joker dragged the cover away, exposing her skin to the cool early morning's air. " _C'mon_ , we have a lo- _t_ to do today."

"I already told you that I have no intentions of being a part of it."

" _Nah_ , y'said you won't save my _ass_. _Nothin_ ' about _helping_ me." Joker climbed on top of the bed, reaching for the woman, tugging her to the corner of it. "C'mon, c'mon, _c'mon_ , hurry u _-p_."

"What the fuck are you doing, Joker? Why do you need me?" Finally, Clara surrendered, standing up, two bare bodies in front of each other, a staring competition between hooded, black abysses and bloody steel.

"I _need_ ya. That's _all_ you nee- _d_ to know for now, toots." The man licked his lips, paint-free face giving away nothing but excitement. "Dress u- _p_. In a, uh, _formal_ attire. Something _comfortable_." Not waiting for her response, he himself moved towards the wardrobe, mumbling incoherent words underneath his breath. Digging out a white button-up shirt and black, tight pants, Jack threw them at Clara. "Take a, uh, shower. _Quick_. Be _quick_."

"Will you give me my underwear, boss?"

"D'ya _need_ any? Without it, we would be able to get to the _final_ base _faster_ , little assassin." Joker quirked his eyebrows, smirking and at the same time taking in the naked woman in front. He met her frosty gaze, absolutely unamused. " _Okay_ , okay. Here ya go."

It took ten minutes to shower, and ten more to dress up and make herself presentable. When Clara emerged from the bathroom, Joker was nowhere in sight. With a hope that he grew impatient and simply left her, the woman slowly made her way downstairs, taking in the silent house.

" _Come_." She abruptly twisted her head towards where the nasal voice came from, seeing Jack in his purple suit, still barefaced, but already projecting the aura of a terrorist. Clara manoeuvred to where he stood, next to the open front door.

"You know that I'm not exactly a bossing-around material, right?"

"You do not come because _I'm_ bossing around. Ya come b'cause _you_ want to keep my ass _outta_ trouble, little assassin."

"I have known Crane for more than a decade, and you still think I can't recognize an emotional manipulation?"

"You're, uh, _paranoid_."

"You keep saying that too often, J." Clara found herself on the side of Joker's black van, passenger's door already open, the man impatiently waiting for her to get in. "What a gentleman you are." After she climbed in, the man shut the door loudly, went around and also got in.

"What could I say. It's in my bloo- _d_." He reversed from her driveway, driving to where the city was. But instead of going to the already busy centre, they moved towards living quarters, west side of Gotham.

"Where are we going?"

" _Home._ " Joker hummed lowly, keeping an eye on other cars around them, looking for a spot to park the van. "Home sweet _ho-o-_ me." Grinning, the man turned his face towards Clara, motioning to a two-story, white house. "Ho _ney-y-y_?"

"Sweet pea?" She lifted one eyebrow, waiting for his answer. The man dug one hand inside a pocket of his coat, lifting hand with keys.

"I nee- _d_ favour. Go and, uh, _unlock_ the door. And keep it _unlocked_. I cannot go inside looking like _me_ in broad _day_ light." Looking into his eyes, then at the hand, and then lifting them once more, Clara finally snatched the keys, stepping out of the car. She could feel Jack's heavy gaze following her, at the same time examining their surroundings. The woman reached the door, went inside and did as the Joker said. Finally, Clara took in the inside of the place that the man called his 'home'.

A simple hallway met her, clean and lightly coloured. Not waiting for the owner, she moved deeper into the house, examining, taking mental notes of what was around her. Lots of the times the environment that one created to live in could characterize the owner pretty well. But when it came to Joker, she just couldn't be sure about anything, so the surgeon didn't dig too deep behind the possible meaning of his house's furnishing.

When Clara reached the living room, cosy and also milky coloured, bright with the morning sun shining inside, she took a seat on a comfortable-looking couch. Momentary closing her eyes, she let out a tired breath. It was rather familiar, this constant feeling of exhaustion that she was experiencing since meeting the Joker. The surgeon remembered feeling the same in Israel, in Vietnam, in Iraq. Constant danger, keeping her up at night, resulting in foggy brain and less than optimal bodily functions.

When she opened those steely orbs once more, the Joker laid on the same couch as herself, his feet on a coffee table, staring intently at the woman next to him. "Had a nice na- _p_?"

"I did."

" _Good_."

"Good?"

" _Go-o-o_ d." He grinned, mirth glinting in the depth of his eyes. "My, uh, _friends_ will come here soon. I need to _dress up_ before _meetin_ ' them." Jack caressed the lower-lip scar with his tongue, at the same time drumming at his thighs lightly. Clara noticed his nails, unlike most of the times, were clean, paint-free.

"Well, not that I'm holding you. Free to go." Clara lifted her long legs, twisting the whole body to one side, putting them behind Joker's back and nudging him with the sides of her calves, encouraging to stand up. Following his movements, the woman saw him do exactly that, throwing an amused look towards her. Muttering something incoherent, Jack made his way towards the stairs. This time when the surgeon closed her eyes, she continued listening to the sound of a half-empty house. It was surprisingly calming to hear pipes gurgling underneath the house, muted voices of people outside, sounds of cars and probably even birds. A vibe of normality.

Suddenly, someone started banging at the front door. Someone, who probably was one of the 'friends' that the Joker was previously talking about. Opening her eyes, Clara took in a formally-dressed man stepping down the stairs, longish brown hair tamed and clean, void of previous green colour. Lifting one eyebrow, she examined this change in attire, guard's uniform, polished, shiny shoes, a beautiful, long-barreled gun in his hand. "Who are you, stranger?"

"A _stranger-r-r._ " Only the grin was familiar in his otherwise distinct appearance. 'Guard' moved towards the door, opening it and letting in eight other men, dressed just like him. They entered the house, keeping their heads down, fingers clenching barrels of guns. It was interesting enough to watch how Joker's goons behaved around the man when they actually knew who he was. "Have ya _done_ what I _asked_ you to do?"

"Yes, boss. The guards are taken care of. Easier than shooting fish in a barrel." One of them, a man with salt-and-pepper in his hair, answered, casting a curious glance to the woman on the couch. "Boss, what..."

"And the _window_? Did ya pu- _t_ a timer for _exactly_ how much I sai- _d_?"

"We did, but boss, why is the surgeon of Gotham General with us?"

"Shut u- _p_. Have you _blind_ folded the, uh, _guards_?"

"Yes, boss."

" _Now_ , the _surgeon_ is a _very_ dear friend of mine. Don't overthink i- _t_. Will, uh, _overheat_ the _porridge_ in your heads." The Joker let out a maniac chuckle, showing that, despite being dressed in entirely different attire, he was nevertheless the same lunatic. "The ceremony _starts_ in two hours. Take _enough_ bullets, an- _d_ let _s-s-s_ go." He turned towards Clara who was still laying on the couch, hands above and underneath her head, analyzing keenly the situation in front of her. "Little assassin." When he made sure he had her attention, the Joker motioned towards the men with his head. "Ya go with _me_ and _blackie_ one here." Indicating a sweaty, dark-haired man with a long, pointy nose, he waited for the woman to obey. As she stood up, they all exited the house, locking it before making their way to three black cars, parked just outside the building. Clara opened the passenger's seat to one of them, getting in and making herself as comfortable as possible in the tiny space. Joker was the driver, leaving the backseat for the silent man. The woman could feel his gaze on the back of her head, making tiny hairs stand up in unease. She didn't like those attentive, crazed eyes. Not one bit.

"Will the secret of my role in this masterplan be revealed?" The Joker kept his eyes on the road, his attention was unwavering. He was silent for so long that Clara started losing her hopes of getting any type of information from the man. Until he abruptly spoke in a low voice, void of any nasality or humour.

" _I_ and my men will be standing just _in_ _front_ of the Mayor, maintaining the, uh, _disguise_ of honour guards, until the security is _disturbed_." The woman kept her steely gaze on Jack's profile, memorizing his words. "There is a _window_. A window of a _room_ in which the _real_ honour guards are tied u- _p_. And, uh, a _timer_. At a _certain_ time, it will go off, _opening_ the shutters and _distracting_ all security outside. Thi _s-s-s_ will be our clue to take action. Are ya still _followin_ ' me?"

"I am."

" _Good_. And thi _s-s-s_ is where _you_ come in the game." He threw her a lazy grin, cheeky and completely malicious. "My _friends_ have seen this, uh, _handsome_ face of mine. Money can do _only_ so much to keep their mouths _shut_ when the excitement wears off. I am a man who enjoys his _daylight_ strolls in the park, little assassin. Can't risk an idiot let _loose_ , huh?" Clara had a presumption of what the man wanted her to do, confirmed when he took her Enfield No. 2 from his pocket, handing the revolver to the woman. She silently took it, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat.

When he came the first time, Clara had an inkling, an itch of suspiciousness that the Joker knew more about her past, long-time-buried previous life of hers than he showed in the first place, from the way he talked, looked at the woman, addressed her. It wasn't a particularly pleasant thought to realize that somebody has dug deeper than Clara would normally allow. Especially when certain somebody was a psychotic clown, a lunatic who could use the tiniest weakness of yours to swipe you off of the face of Earth.

"When?" Her voice became hoarse out of the blue, steely, hazy eyes cast on the city in front of her.

"After I _shoot_ the Mayor. Take six standing furthest from me, and I will take care of the rest." Nodding once, the woman remained stoic, fingers clutching the gun. She felt a light poking on her thigh, quad muscles underneath unconsciously contracting. Jack hummed lowly, tapping Clara's leg with enough force to keep her attention.

"Stop _thinkin_ ', little assassin."

They drove for a few more minutes until the upcoming crowd blocked the pathway. Joker parked the black car, turning to the surgeon when he did so.

" _Now_ , go ou _-t_ and stay close to the front line. Follow my lead, and _don't_ do anything before I do. _Comprende_?"

"Si señor." Clara opened and closed the door, catching a short glimpse of the man's grin cast towards her. She manoeuvred between people, not making eye contact, gun safely tugged underneath her shirt, in the waist of her pants. The woman aimlessly walked to the corner of the crowd, as she still had some time till the ceremony started. Clara kept her presence out of view so the fewer people would remember her being here. The less, the better.

"Clara!" The woman closed her eyes for a moment, a wave of irritation overcoming the woman immediately. So much for the attempt. Turning around, she saw no one else but Bruce nearing her, dressed in the weirdest clothes possible. Well, not exactly. Clara herself rather enjoyed leather jackets, which was exactly what Wayne has put on, but the casual, biker-like appearance just disputed with its wearer's personality and position in society. Sudden amusement came, making the surgeon smile. It seemed that not only the Joker took an outfit of a different character today.

"What a surprise. So now you belong to some kind of biker club, huh? What's next? Becoming a stripper?" Bruce gave her a pointed look, keeping his lips tight as if swallowing down a smile.

"Nice to meet you too, Doc." The man came to stand next to her, holding a black helmet under one arm. "Didn't expect to meet you here."

"Neither did I expect myself to be here. Not exactly my cup of tea."

"What changed then? Did Lucius finally refuse to be kicked and punched like a sandbag?"

"Not really. It's my kind heart that gave him a morning off, and not his bossy personality." Clara moved her gaze towards the front, seeing the honour guards start taking their position. At the same time, the woman noticed security men standing everywhere, blended in with the environment well enough to not cause unnecessary panic. Apparently, Bruce kept an eye on them too, looking at the same direction, his jaw emptily working.

"Just this once I will allow you to keep your fantasies undamaged. We both know who's patience finally snapped." Clara got a feeling that the more humane version of Batman was here with a purpose. Even when talking to her, the man kept glancing around, examining their surroundings, looking for something invisible.

"Do you really think so lowly of me? To physically abuse an old man?" Sarcasm was evident in Clara's voice, drawing back Wayne's attention. "I do have some honour, you know. Not everything is lost yet."

"The concept of honour varies from person to person, Clara. What one finds being honourable may not live up to other's standards. That's the cruel reality. And neither one of them will be wrong, because humans have their own perspectives that they see the world through." A weird, downcast expression made its way on Bruce's face, serious, brown eyes boring into the woman's steely ones. "You can't always live up to everyone else's expectations. But at least you can follow your own voice of justice. Morality. Honour. And if those voices say that you can kick an old man in the groin, then that probably means that you should actually do it."

"We aren't entirely free to follow those voices, Bruce."

"Oh, but we are. Unless you decide to do something absolutely horrible, of course." He quirked his eyebrows, casting that expressive face a little lower. "Are you thinking about something illegal, Doc?"

"I might be." It was said lightheartedly and with a one-sided smirk, but on the inside, Clara remained untouched and serious.

"Well, I won't report you. As long as your behaviour will be based on your own beliefs, and not somebody's else. Let your own honour guide you. If it is loud enough, then you shouldn't fear the consequences." With one last look towards the crowd, the man gave her an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid I have to go now. It was a pleasure seeing you, Doc. Stay out of trouble." The woman nodded, acknowledging his warning. Bruce turned around and quickly disappeared, leaving Clara to her own mission. And although the man was gone, his words continuously ringed inside her mind. _Honour. What was the honour?_

She made her way to where the Joker told her to wait, noting that the Mayor already started talking. _"...and we recognize the sacrifice of these officers. We must remember that vigilance is the price of safety."_ The woman took a tactical position, not completely in front of everyone, but comfortable enough to take an aim.

 _"Stand by!"_ One of Joker's goons, the last fraud in line, started talking, keeping everyone's attention to himself. Now Clara was exactly beyond the man, slowly taking the revolver from underneath her shirt, clutching it tightly. Enfield No. 2 could have six bullets put inside, one for every man. She can't miss. She _won't_ miss. Clara knew that.

They raise their guns, shoot once, and lower them once more. With the man continuously shouting, honour guards repeat the process. If Clara wasn't attentive, she would have thought that it was only the Joker and his goons shooting the second time, but she could swear hearing somebody behind her letting out a bullet too. _Security guards._ They lifted the barrels for the third time. Now Clara was ready, her unwavering attention concentrated on the back of the talking man. The woman's world suddenly narrowed, at the same time as the eight men turned towards the Mayor.

Noise.

Screams.

Shoots.

 _Chaos_.

She could feel the recoil of her revolver, seeing six men dropping one after another. Mayhem erupted everywhere around her, hiding the Joker from her eyes, men blending with other guards and disappearing from view. The surgeon quickly manoeuvred towards the car, maintaining the clear, undisturbed head in the chaos that this psychotic clown initiated. People around her screamed and cried, searching for their loved ones, not paying attention to the lonely tall figure.

The thrill, excitement bubbled inside, dyeing her surroundings in much brighter colours.

When Clara finally reached the car, a certain man already sat behind the steering wheel, a wicked grin stretching his macabre scars. Jack motioned with his now bare head to the empty seat next to him, waiting for the woman to get in. When she opened the door, high-pitched giggles tore from his mouth, showing the man's high spirits. "So kind of you to wait for me, J. I feel honoured."

"I'm in a good moo- _d_. No need to force ya walk a _long_ road on feet, little assassin." He quickly drove away, continuously chuckling. Chaos entertained the clown. Pain fed his twisted soul. " _No_ Mayor. _Gordon_ is enough for _no-o-_ ow. Will keep the, uh, _tail_ away."

"If that's what you say." The adrenaline rush was abruptly gone, leaving an empty shell behind. It was strange how quickly years of hard work and self-reflection could be turned to nothing. Ashes. Dust. It was so easy to become a tool, be manipulated and used. And the scariest part was that she herself took the role of a master who controlled the tool which was nothing else but her skills and mastery of assassination.

Spark becomes a flame, and the flame becomes a fire. Clara didn't know how to control that fire.

"Don- _t_ _think_."

 _Song of the chapter: Tool - Intension_


	12. Tough As They Come

Clara had a friend. She could not have asked for a better friend. Did he have faults? Sure. Don't we all? Most of his faults were not that big of a deal, but they were raw. Raw, because he admitted to them all, openly and directly, and naively, to be honest. In a sort of pointed and heavy-handed self-critique. He would bear his weaknesses to the world and to Clara, and to himself. And he would speak to Clara as if she had no faults. The surgeon would explain to him otherwise but he wouldn't listen. He would only judge himself. 'I'm too emotional.' he would say. 'Not really.' she would tell him with a sad smile. 'I don't know how to talk to people right.' 'Sure you do.' The woman would say. 'I make the same mistakes over and over and over again.' He would say. 'But we all do.' Clara would tell him. She was better than him at some things and they both knew that, and there were other things that he was better than her. But he always downplayed those things, and they both knew that too.

When they were overseas, in a bad place, in a rigid place, he never complained. And Clara gave him every reason to. She would allow him to be sent in the worst locations, with the greatest possible chances of failure, and the highest probability of fire, and fury, and blood, and death. But despite the enemy, and the heat, and the living conditions, and the fear, and the wounded men, and the screams, the misery that was all around, he did not complain. It seemed at times that the imaginary God himself was trying to test the limits of Clara's friend. And it seemed that sooner or later the bullets or the bombs would find him. But through some incomprehensive miracle, he survived through that appointment.

Now, she makes no claim to understand why things in life unfold the way they do. In fact, Clara could say that many of the things that she had seen in the world made no sense at all. Sometimes it's just the utter confusion, no rime, no reason. Some of the things that Clara have seen left her downright disgusted. Jaded. Repulsed. Sickened by mankind and the awful, reprehensible things we are capable of.

But there is another side to that. There is another side, and there are other people who do their best to redeem all the evil that our souls are capable of. Her friend was one of those people. After the departure with her and surviving that bloody and violent battlefield, Clara's friend, like most of the guys, most of the soldiers, volunteered to deploy again. She thought, and she told him, prematurely and incorrectly, that the enemy was gone. She told him that the war was all but over, just do the appointment, just sit tight over there and play the game, and in a few months they will be back and they can go to the mountains, they can play the guitar next to the campfire, they can tell stories and they can cook steaks and they can climb the mountains some more. Clara told him they could carry on when he got home. That was the plan. It was a good plan.

But the enemy gets evoked, and there was intense violence during that appointment as well. It was similar to what they had experienced together overseas. An aggressive enemy, hell-bent on killing Americans, dangerous urban environment with a terrified local population. He told that the enemy he was now facing was not as tactfully skilled as the enemy they have faced before, but he said that they were braver. More determined. Recklessly courageous. That seemed to concern him a bit more. He seemed to feel that the odds were that he would die. He sent her his last will and testament. He was not morose about that, just stating the facts. It's bad over here. The enemy is aggressive, casualty rates are very high, the enemy has new weapons that are extremely capable. It didn't look good.

Clara waited. Clara waited the long and completely powerless wait. One known mostly by mothers and fathers, and wives, and children that are old enough to understand. But the wait also made by the brothers at home that knew the risk all too well.

It was a long wait. At her friend's memorial service his brother told a story. Clara's friend had talked to him on the phone when he was on the appointment and her friend explained to his brother in no uncertain terms the situation that he was in. The enemy was extremely hostile, the battlefield was chaotic, the attacks were frequent and furious. It was violence that her friend had not experienced before. This was war, unleashed, and it seemed to be heading to an inescapable conclusion. And her Clara's friend's brother sensed this. Even through the phone, even thousands of miles away as his brother. He sensed the darkness and the overwhelming finality of the situation. And he said to her friend. 'Do you need anything from me? How can I help? Is there anything that I can do?' Her friend was quiet for a moment, and he made one simple request. 'Pray for my men. Pray for _her_.'

Now, think about that. Think about that level of selflessness. That level of faith, and of commitment, and care for others. That level of dedication in the face of fear and violence and death to at that moment put others before yourself. To do good. To be heroic, and strong, and brave, and yet at the same time to be humble, and be ready to sacrifice everything for your friends. That's a man. And Clara couldn't have asked for a better friend.

The world can be a horrible place. It's filled with violence and tragedy, and sometimes it seems that the legions of demonic powers have upper hand in the battle of good and evil and it can seem that everything is already lost. And then, we remember. We see the light, and for Clara, the light comes from the example of others. In this case, another person, another human being. Her friend who, despite all the power of darkness, stood up and rejected all that wickedness and proved that there is hope. That there is a path for light and that we can get on that path like her friend did. But it is not easy. And for some, the path is unreachable. No matter how much you try, how aggressively you deny your real, raw nature, it still comes back and bites you, bites hard and spreads its poison in the body, in the brain that you thought was clean and healed a long time ago. There is no immunity for that. No shield. No discipline can help. Sometimes, only a little push is required to destroy everything that you were building for so long, tear you off the path of light before you have even reached it.

" _Very_ sad, little assassin. Very, uh, _dramatic_. Noble an- _d_ _tearing_." Joker's bare face was stoic and serious, but his voice told an entirely different story. There was so much irony, subtle mockery, hidden behind a sympathetic look, that even Clara's bleak mood was cracked, a cynical smile making its way on her own face.

"It is, isn't it?"

"I just said tha- _t_."

It's been a few hours since coming back to Jack's home. The man refused to bring Clara to her own home, mumbling incoherent excuses of being hungry and that the ride to the countryside-like area was far too long. Therefore, instead of spending her day in the home library or the garage gym, Clara found herself standing in front of the countertop in Joker's kitchen, cooking beautiful, fresh salmon which Jack in some unbelievable miracle had in his fridge. But that was not all. After digging deeper inside, she also found a drawer with vegetables, filled to the top, fresh and colourful. She's been staring at it with unbelieving eyes and narrowed eyebrows for so long, that the man came to check up on her wondering whether she didn't find something unusual in the fridge. A head, for example. Or perhaps a finger.

Looking at the Joker, one would think that the man had either a strict diet and exercise regimen, or inhuman genetics, and Clara always thought that it must have been the later. After all, Jack himself said that he survived mostly on fast food. But now, seeing a fridge full of good, nutritious products, she started doubting both her memory and the man's honesty. After realizing what exactly gave the woman a shock, he gave her a shrug and explained that he has become a health-concerned individual after getting enough inspiration from the woman herself. This, or more likely that he was repulsed by the fact that there could be something much more disturbing in pizza sauces than one would expect.

Whatever the actual reason was in the first place, Joker's kitchen now resembled one of a health nut. Making a stirfry of sweet bell peppers, onions, asparagus and garlic, Clara had absolutely no complaints about this change in behaviour.

"Were ya telling me a story abou- _t_ _James_?"

"I'm rather surprised you actually remembered his name, J."

"Don't be. I _listen_. And I have a good memory." The surgeon hummed, plating the fish with vegetables and bringing them to the table where Joker was already sitting, cleaning his collection of knives. She lowered herself, following his movements, the way Jack wiped the blades with precision and care. "It's _hard_ to forget someone who was your, uh, _bed_ friend's _lover_."

"It shouldn't be, sweet pea. Both when you create a strong relationship with that friend and when you remain distant, except for occasional sex. Men get annoyed when their girlfriends become jealous of their past partners, but it's the same the other way around, too." She remained quiet for a moment, musing about something. "And here I was wondering why the stab that you had left never got infected." As he raised his head, Clara motioned towards the blades with a fork, a piece of pink fish on the end. "They were clean."

"Are you _tryin_ ' to inflict a feeling of regre- _t_ upon me, little assassin?" His dark eyes bore into her steely ones, tongue darting out to lick his lower lip.

"I might be."

" _Then_ you would be _stupid_."

"I have no problem with that." Clara lowered her gaze to his untouched plate. "Eat."

" _Why_? Have you _poisoned_ i- _t_?"

"Again, I might have. If this is your last meal, at least have some pleasure of eating it warm." Sarcasm made its way in her tone, husky voice going up in a note. Joker hasn't looked at his plate, examining hooded eyes still on the woman. She was not sure what was going on inside of that crazy head of his.

"Wouldn't be the _first_ , huh?"

"First what?"

"Infected woun- _d_. Inflicted with non-sterile tools."

"You're not giving up, are you?"

" _No_." Jack's lips were aimlessly moving, with tongue caressing his scars from the inside. "Did, uh, _James_ have a family? _Wife_? Kid _s-s-s_?" Clara froze, a bite mid-way to her mouth. Slowly, she lowered it down, lifting those cold, stormy eyes that reflected no emotion, no feeling but complete and utter emptiness. If nothingness could be portrayed, one could find its definition in the woman's eyes.

"He did."

"And did she _approve_ your close proximity with her significant other?"

"Hayley didn't know anything."

"So _intriguing_. A _secret_ romance, huh?" The man grinned, noticing Clara's discomfort. "Both _overseas_ , both _lonely_ , searching for _warmth_ in each other's a _r-r_ _-_ _r_ ms." She pulled the plate away, her appetite gone. The surgeon leaned back, jaw locked tightly and almost painfully.

"Don't talk about things that you don't understand, _boy_." She nothing but hissed, sudden furry evident in her menace voice. Joker chuckled, noticing her knuckles go white, bone threatening to burst through the thin skin.

" _Yeah_? But I _do_. Tragedy just _loves_ ya."

"Stop provoking me, clown."

"Then sto- _p_ being _weak_. Your past _weakens_ you."

"My past defines me, idiot." Clara noticed him reaching for one of the blades. "Running from it is what makes you weak. You can either accept and embrace what's happened, learn from experience, or be a complete _child_ , with a _child's_ mentality, and with a _child's_ behaviour." If she was Crane, she would know how to react to this sudden change in mood. But the woman was not him, had her own temper that flared just as brightly as the Joker's. They kept throwing mental daggers at each other, burning eyes holding their gazes locked. Clara knew he wanted to do something horrible to her, but she wanted to stick a blade in those black abysses, too. And only a miracle kept these two furious creatures in place. Slowly, oh so slowly they both went back to their meals, not talking, still fuming on the inside. Like two angry children, mad at each other. They were too similar when it came to arguments, both holding their sides and refusing to even consider the possibility of the other one being right.

When they finished eating, Clara rose from her seat and brought her plate to the sink, collecting Joker's on the way. Still silent, she washed them, drying the moisture and putting them away. The woman stared through the window at other houses nearby, wondering how exactly this day managed to turn this way. Was this his disappointment talking? The Mayor, target of today, is alive, after all. If it was something that _she_ had planned, and the result didn't turn out as it was supposed to, Clara would be disappointed, too.

"Harvey's _squeeze_." A voice behind her said, bringing back Clara's attention.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Rachel Dawes. I, uh, was _thinkin_ ' about what you've said. About the relationship between _Batsy_ and the _girl_." With a calming breath, the woman turned around, preparing herself for another turn in his mood. The Joker was like the sea. Unpredictable and... Just... Chokeable.

"And what about her?"

"I have plans for her. Bu- _t_ _first_ , I need _someone_ to keep an eye on the girlie." Jack gave her a pointed look, lowering his head a little. Anger flared inside Clara once more, drowning her surroundings in a red haze. With three long strides, she reached the sitting man, crouching in front of the Joker, putting her hands on his knees and getting close to his face. In a low, barely audible voice, the woman spat out.

"I'm not one of your thugs, _clown_." She could feel his breath on her lips, Joker's tongue darting out to lick the scar on his lower lip. " _Don't_ mistake me for someone I am not." Crazed, blue eyes stared at the man from below. "You will not order me around, Joker."

 _"_ Hi- _t_ a _nerve_ , didn't I?" Clara gazed at him silently, taking in this poisonously handsome face, sharp features, malicious smirk stretching those macabre wounds. "He hadn't asked to pray for _you_ , y'know. He asked to pray for _her_. You realized that a _long_. _Time_. _Ago_." Jack lifted his eyebrows, giving her a judicial look. "And it drives ya _crazy_."

"I know. But you are horrible at psychology, J. You're blindly shooting, hoping that your bullets are well-aimed. They're not, because you just don't grasp the concept." Gently, Clara rubbed the hollows on the sides of his knee caps. "You're pressing incorrect buttons. They hurt, but not to the point where I unthinkingly strangle you. For now, I _want_ to do that. I _really_ do, but my impulses remain inside my head." The woman tapped his legs lightly, standing up and casting the man a penetrative smile. "Keep going, sweet pea. One day you will finally crack the great secret of friendship."

" _Where_ are ya _goin_ '?" Clara made her way towards the door.

"Home."

"Ya have _no_ car, toots."

"My athleticism is absolutely on point. I am good at running."

"There's a _long_ road ahead."

"And my legs are strong, J." She closed the door behind herself, blocking the sound of Joker's nasal tone. Taking in a deep breath, Clara sprinted towards the end of living quarters. Luckily enough, she had comfortable shoes on, allowing her to escape from the metaphorical hostage relatively quickly. A run didn't scare her. _He_ did.

 _The weird woman confused him. Troubled his mind. Annoyed him. Envoke a madman inside. Bu-t she was useful. Resourceful. It was both dangerous and beneficial to keep a sleepin' killer nearby. The murderer's instinct was strong. She mounted the destruction inside, but it was still poten-t. Still raging. Still hungry. Starving for blood. Her order called for his chaos. Sitting there, in an empty kitchen, breathing in the heavy scent of a crazed woman, clove mixing with the smell of fresh air, the aroma of midsummer. He knew what he had to do. But only when the time comes. If the time comes. The hiding snake will be forced out, showing the world its poisonousness. She won't escape, because the tra-p locked her in too tightly. He locked the woman in, close to himself, so the predator inside of her could feel his own warmth and be lured out by it._

 _Song of the chapter: Godsmack - Voodoo_


	13. The Present, the Past

Maybe Clara was always in the wrong place at the wrong time, she could see where someone could get that idea. But, the woman actually couldn't force herself to think that. She doesn't think that at all. It's, in fact, quite the opposite. Now, looking back, of course, there were some tough times. There were some awful times. Clara would even go so far as to say there were some rigid times. There were nights filled with discomfort and stress and fear, and there was pressure. Sometimes the pressure was so great that she thought her mind might just fracture. Break apart. But fortunately, the surgeon didn't break. There were times when she saw the cracks. She saw the cracks and had to work hard to keep it together. But that's the way it was in her world. Her world had some downsides. On top of all that stress, and fear, and discomfort, there was death. Even during peacetime. Even during peacetime, she lost friends, teammates, and leaders. It goes with the personality type, they would say. Risk takers. So, even peace provided little peace. And then, once the war started, it just escalated. Not just for Clara. Every military member has dealt with death in some way. Some more than others.

There also have been some life-changing physical wounds, of which the woman was spared. She was lucky. Fortunate in the most direct way possible. But, many others were not so lucky. Because the bombs, the bullets, they do not care who you are. But, for whatever reason, she made it through. Clara was lucky. And now her life goes on. Maybe she's a little more paranoid than the next person, and maybe she doesn't sleep as well, or maybe a memory catches her off guard and she lives the moment from the past, wondering what could have changed if her actions were different. And, you might think, wouldn't she just want to change it all, to go back and erase all that pain, replace it with relief. Replace it with ease and comfort. And the answer to that question is _no_. Not just no, its _hell no._ Because wrapped up in that pain, wrapped up in that discomfort, and wrapped up in that stress and anxiety, its the polar opposites of those feelings. Inside that turmoil, there was the relief, there was the certainty. There was happiness, there were focus and security, and there was peace. Peace of mind in knowing that no matter what, no matter what horrors were in front, everything will be okay. That was because she was sure her brothers would take care of her.

Not all people are good. There are substantial people in every organization in the world. There is a bell curve. The bottom of the bell curve is filled with the same deficient people you will find everywhere. Lazy, scamming, irresponsible, self-centred. But at the high end, the guys she worked with were righteous, and noble, and hardworking, and it was humbling to be around them. Were they perfect? No. Did they have flaws? Yes, absolutely. But could she count on them? Could she count on them without question and without hesitation? One hundred percent. Through all the horror, and the fear, and the pressure. They would never let her down. Ever. And, as fate would have it, she was lucky enough to still have one man that she could count on.

Now, standing in front of that man's door, Clara experienced a deja-vu. It happened sometimes. It was not a pleasant feeling. As if you know that you have forgotten something, but can't remember what. A feeling of uncertainty. Did it happen? When? How? You don't remember the details, only the distinct feeling of the experience itself.

"What a rare guest. Christmas must have come early, right?" A smooth, velvety voice greeted the woman, blue eyes examining her bleak face.

"I have a feeling it won't come this year at all, Jonathan." She motioned with her head towards his door. "Will you let me in?"

"If half of the Arkham won't look for you, then yes, make yourself at home." Scarecrow moved to the side, allowing Clara to pass the door. "Or, to be more precise, if a certain clown won't come after you. I rather enjoy having a calm lifestyle nowadays."

"Getting old, are you?" Her sarcastic voice sounded a little more alive than before. Crane had this effect on her. Familiarity. The sadistic doctor gave her a feeling of comfort. "Abandoning your hectic existence for a calm life in the suburban area. Never thought the time will come."

"Just like I never thought that my long lost friend will show up without my pleadings. Tea?"

"Green. Don't burn it with boiling water. Let it cool for a few minutes." Crane took a deep breath. He never rolled his eyes. Not once. He always breathed deeply, in an attempt to calm down. Perhaps even counted in his head till ten.

"I know how to brew green tea, Clara. You have taught me a long, _long_ time ago."

"With the head of yours, I can never be sure." He threw her a judging gaze before turning around and heading towards the kitchen. "How's the bite?"

"Good. Healed nicely, except for the ugly scar that has been left."

"I'm sure it will not ruin your magnificent beauty, Jonathan. Don't cry." The woman sat on a couch, the same one that the man was stitched on. Making herself comfortable, she leaned back, closing her eyes and listening to the Scarecrow working his magic. He was back rather quickly, holding two cups of steaming liquid that he placed on the table.

"How is life? Running around with a terrorist, killing my former patients, making new friends and attending billionaire's parties? Rather exciting days that you have now, Clara. You keep surprising me." Jonathan gave her his attentive look, blue eyes boring into her grey ones. The man knew her just too well to ignore the tiny details of uneasiness, hidden in her stance, movements, tight pressing of lips.

"If I lived my days of glory, I wouldn't be in need of a therapy session, Doctor Crane." She gave him a sour smile, lacking any mirth behind.

"Since I don't spend my days making friends with disordered people anymore..."

"You wanted to say since you don't experiment with them anymore. At least not openly." Clara interrupted the man before he drew a picture of his past days that was overly attractive and rather unrealistic.

"Well, since I have a lot more leisure time, we could work out a session, Clara." Crane gave her a polite, barely noticeable lift of lips, moving his glasses a little higher on his nose. "Should I grab my notebook?" He started standing up, pretending to search for a pen.

"No, sit, I changed my mind." The same movement of mouth repeated, an amused look making its way in Scarecrows eyes. But not for long.

"I must say I was rather surprised when I heard about your... Free time."

"And how exactly did you know about it?"

"I have my ways, Clara. My name still means something to few." He took his cup, swirling the liquid inside. "Although what was most unexpected is your little mission during the parade." Crane lifted his blue gaze, examining the woman on the couch.

"I'm slipping back." Silent confession sounded harsh and croaky, arms limp by her sides, the cup of tea untouched and forgotten. "Back to where it all started." She could feel the former psychologist's eyes on her, heard the deep breaths that Jonathan took in and let out.

"The funeral service?"

"Hmm. That was the main trigger. But then I remembered James." Here, those loud breaths again.

"We worked on this twice, Clara. Both times it took months to get you back on track, and a change in environment to eliminate your previous surroundings. Don't tell me you are spiralling down once more." The Scarecrow was angry now, or more likely disappointed, but it also lit the surgeon's temper.

"It's not like I can control these states, and you know that better than anybody else. I maintain my control. But the same voice, the same luring tempts me, calls me." Those steely eyes bore into the man's, previously guarded and cold, but now projecting mixed emotions, confusion, and anger, but also unexpected helplessness and vulnerability. Jonathan looked at her until he stood up and with a sigh reached for the woman, sitting beside and shooing her further towards the middle of the couch.

When they were younger, they used to do that sometimes. Crane, sitting upright, with Clara's head in his lap, doing nothing but stroking long, dark locks. She knew him enough not to believe this position being a sign of affection, and that at the same time he was probably thinking about ways to improve his fear toxin. But at those times, just like now, laying on her back, with long legs hanging over the armrest of the couch and feeling long, slim fingers tangling in her hair, the woman felt weird calmness overpowering her. It was an animalistic reaction, and both doctors knew that. Stroke, gentle caress indicated safety, therefore making both the one who moves and the one who feels relax. And it worked. It always worked.

"You have an addiction, Clara, I've already explained my theory a long time ago. And just like any other addict, being exposed to the substance makes you spiral down. Don't forget, that was the main reason why you decided to departure to Israel. To _heal_ and _save_ people. Not kill them." Caressing continued, the surgeon's facial expression was relaxed and emotionless. She was thinking and thinking hard.

"I've... Said that war is the ultimate teacher. I wanted to be taught how to control myself. But now, I think it's also true to say that war is the ultimate revealer. It reveals a side of people that would not normally be allowed to come out." Clara closed her eyes, blocking out everything - the light from outside, coming through the window, the sight of the ceiling, and also the look in Jonathan's eyes. "Because in war, there is so much happening. There is so much pressure, so much emotion, and everything is so intense. And I saw people change. I don't want to make this overly dramatic. In most cases, I'm not talking about some big, dramatic transformations that a person goes through. But I'm talking about changes. The changes were often visible. Visible things that would be out of character for someone, they'd start acting in a different way, sometimes negative, and sometimes positive."

"I'm a little confused where are you going with this, Clara."

"Hush. Just listen. There might be someone who's temper gets quick, starts to flare up. There might be someone who becomes more understanding, more forgiving. Some people were happier in combat, and some were absolutely stressed to the core. And when I look back, it becomes very clear that there were some changes in my own attitude. There were some times when I had to reel myself in. I definitely tried to stay professional at all times, that's what I always do. But I can feel it sometimes starting to come apart. And I had to breathe, mentally breathe, consciously pull the pieces back together so I don t lose my temper, so I don't lose my composure." She went quiet, waiting for the doctor to say anything. But the man was silent, simply stroking those black locks. "And I know that that's a good quality which I saw in other leaders, in other surgeons and doctors. I thought that it was a positive quality and I tried to imitate it. And I got pretty good at it. But sometimes, I really had to focus on that. I focused on keeping my composure, on staying calm, on controlling my reactions and to not start slashing people from inside out, just to end everything. Some people have a hard time doing that, and I noticed quite a few losing their temper when situations got highly intense. I had a lot of time to think about that, and there were some little things that I found inside myself."

"Your storytelling is like my patients' in Arkham. Except that, unlike the majority of them, it seems that you're not faking." She chuckled lowly, too caught up in her own ideas to be offended by his possibly insulting remark.

"No, look. There _is_ some level of madness in war, there just is. Let's face it, you're going out and someone's going to kill people and they're trying to kill you, and their friends are trying to kill your friends, and your friends are killing their friends. That's _not_ normal. If you take that out of context, that's just madness. And that madness in war can creep into your head and very easily it can creep into your actions. But what happens if someone who's mind gets corrupted was relatively insane in the first place? When we see death, and our friends and comrades are wounded and killed, that has an effect. When young men after young men are sent home in a flag-draped coffin, I had to pull my reigns hard. But I wasn't alone. I was surrounded by men with the same vengeful, murderous thoughts. In the end, the war reveals our true nature, unhidden and raw." The woman laid silent, ruminating on some dark thoughts, trying to make sense of them. "What if it is not the beginning of another assassination stroke, but rather rage of experiencing, of participating in an aimless killing, wasting lives of men that are way too similar to those that I used to continuously save for four years?"

"So you mean, it might be that a long-term killing machine who used assassination as a way to cope with family issues, became a humankind-saving warrior? That's a very brave and optimistic idea, Clara. I'm not sure how realistic, though."

"Don't dramatize my theories, Crane. They're logical and well-grounded." She opened those steely orbs, strange fire burning in them. A fire of hope. A fire of determination. A crazed fire that could always be seen somewhere deep inside if you looked long enough. A flame that the Scarecrow was so familiar with. A blaze. The one that was seen before the explosion of madness. The woman who's head weighed his lap had her hopes, which he didn't want to burst. But Jonathan knew her just too well.

"Don't get loose this time. I don't want you to move again."

"Such a sweetheart you are, Jonathan. I knew you secretly miss me when I'm away."

"No, you got it wrong. I just thought about who will fix my arm when another dog tries to bite it off."

"Just let it rot off." The woman twisted her body so that her legs would fall down, upper body following after. Like a large cat, she fell, then stood up, stretching long limbs and a strong back. "Either way, I don't have the urge to do something stupid. At least not now."

"Addictions are sneaky, Clara. You might not feel one coming when you suddenly find yourself hooked." She stared at him for a moment, jaw locked tightly and seemingly for eternity. Her mood changed once more, reality creeping back into the logic-driven brains.

"I know."

"Don't let him make you do that again."

"I most probably will." Clara made her way towards the window, staring at the world outside. "You know, it's a little creepy how well the Joker knows when to press and when to let things slip. As if he knew me at some point in my life, or if he has read my... Biography." She threw the man a thoughtful look. "And I haven't written my biography, Jonathan, nor do I remember ever having a deep and overly open conversation with a man who has a Glasgow smile."

"You are British, Clara. Europeans never ask and don't like answering to one question."

"Will you enlighten me? Now I'm intrigued."

"Are you? Have you ever noticed that Americans tend to say 'What's your story?' when they meet new people?"

"Yes, I get asked that a lot."

"Well, Europeans don't, nor do they answer this question."

"It is absolutely understandable why one would refuse to cry on somebody's shoulder while telling about his misery and distress."

"For you, it's understandable because you're not a native American." He gave Clara a tight-lipped smile. "It is socially acceptable to talk about your past. If I didn't know you, I would say you got drunk one day and told your life story to a random stranger. Bearing in mind your bad luck, it certainly would have been someone troublesome."

"I never get drunk. I don't even drink."

"I'm not saying anything, Clara. I'm just sharing possibilities. Ideas of what might have happened if you weren't you."

"Well, they do not exactly help." The Scarecrow remained quiet, not replying to this statement. They both had something to muse about. Neither of their thoughts was bright and cheerful, as both the man and woman were faced with their problems.

Clara needed a mission. We all need a mission. That's what life should be about. That's what gives your life a purpose, and focus, and drive, and ultimately, satisfaction. That mission can be the job you work at, it could be providing for your family, or it can be getting better at Krav Maga or Olympic lifting, or starting a business that you want to build and take over the world. And sometimes people ask what their mission should be because they haven't found their ultimate purpose yet. Clara thought that if someone is in that situation, they should go and help somebody. It would make one better, and it would make the world better, and eventually, from there, he would see what his own mission was.

She was lucky. From a young age, she had a mission. She had a mission to end up somewhere else than her parents were. To become something more, something greater, something... Different. And now, being three times more her young age, and realize that her mission failed, was harder than she would have anticipated in the first place. Elimination didn't solve the problem, and now, Clara was lost of ideas what would.

But eventually, the woman found a new purpose. A purpose not to fade. She didn't know this yet, or perhaps she did, in the unconscious, completely primal part of her mind, that only this newly found mission will keep the surgeon go forward in dark, bleak, upcoming times.

 _Song of the chapter: Alice In Chains - Rooster_


	14. The Things That We Carry

Clara didn't stay at the Scarecrow's home for the night. She never did, and today was not an exception. As if they've had an unwritten rule, he never offered, and she never insisted. An established routine, if you want, was set.

By the time she finally got home, tired and worn-out, the evening was already set in, enveloping Gotham in its dark embrace, painting the suburban area of the city in misty, faded colours. It was one of the reasons why Clara chose to live here, in an abandoned zone with barely a few houses nearby, void of the city hustle and noise.

She unlocked the door, entering her house without the usual itch of mistrust and suspicion, which was following her the entire week. The woman knew that the Joker wouldn't be here right now, as they separated in a not exactly polite manner. He might turn up later in the night to murder Clara in her sleep, but right now, she was more concerned about what she should make for supper.

The afternoon meeting with the Scarecrow had helped. It was funny at some times to think, to reflect her own life, and realize how much other people, _friends_ actually impacted her existence. Clara always considered herself to be a somewhat loner, a rogue among people, a highly introverted person. But the reality was, the woman was rarely actually lonely, and she hardly remembered what it meant to feel emotionally alone. Yes, she did spend a lot of time on her own, it was in her nature to _be_ alone. But not to feel alone.

The woman opened the fridge, tooting lowly underneath her breath. She desperately needed a trip to the grocery store and butcher. Her supplies of meats were quickly disappearing, also she felt almost ashamed staring at the shy variety of vegetables. Comparing to the clown's reserves, it was rather pathetic to look at. Clara found a large fillet of trout, which she bought a few days ago from the fish market. The fish didn't have a funny smell to it, so the surgeon decided to cook it before it went bad. Pan-fried trout, with watercress, and parsley, and gorgeous capers, lemon, and some tarragon. Salt and pepper at the end, and it should be enough.

Clara met Jonathan when she was nineteen years old. When she got into Harvard, the Scarecrow had already finished his first two years. He and her grandfather had both contributed to Clara's decision to attend the prestige university, as a way to dive into a new activity and therefore get rid of old habits. Old habits that damaged her mind. Old habits that, unfortunately, were hardly solved just by changing the environment. The mentality runs much deeper than the outer layer, than the body. The mind does not change just because you change your home.

Crane was her... Plinth. He gave her support. He criticized her ideas, forced her younger self think and analyze, ground her opinion with immovable reasoning, and then patted on the back for a thoughtful argument. He was the one who taught her the meaning of self-reflection. The value of control. The worth of knowledge. He was a teacher and a friend. A brother and a lover.

 _"You wanna play games?"_

 _SHOOT._

 _A dark-haired man flinches, staring at the tall man in front of him. The barrel of a gun was put against his forehead._

 _"You wouldn't..." A rattled sound escaped the man's mouth, eyes widened with terror._

 _"I WOULDN'T? You don't think I will?" Harvey Dent, standing in front of one of the Joker's thugs, looked down at him with malice. With hate. "No. I wouldn't. That's why I'm not going to leave it up to me." He took out a coin from his pocket, showing it to the sweaty man. "Head - you get to keep your head. Tails... Not so lucky. So, you want to tell me about the Joker?" The dark-haired man swallowed, staring at Gotham's White Knight._

The trout smelled fantastic. Lemon and garlic, and the earthy aroma of the fish itself mixed together in Clara's kitchen, creating a Mediterranean atmosphere. The woman made herself a cup of white tea. In the morning, she needed her caffeine fix. The majority would go to the coffee shop or make it at home, but funnily enough, green tea had just as much caffeine as a cup of coffee. But now, in the evening, she opted for the white tea, as the woman didn't want to stay awake for the night again. She needed her beauty sleep. Clara needed her sleep to keep functioning. To maintain a clear mind.

Her unnamed relationship with the Scarecrow was interesting, to say at least. Really entertaining at times, annoyingly serious when he was irritated or angry, and also sweet and almost caring when they laid on the ground or on the couch, Clara's head in Crane's lap, talking about the mass world domination and the ways to improve the nowadays educational system. She got warmed to Jonathan's aquamarine, hooded gaze and analytical mind, while he got used to Clara's dry sense of humor and cynical persona.

 _The thug, clearly scared, terror reflecting in his eyes, remained silent as a grave. He watched Dent flick the coin into the air and slap it onto the back of his gun hand. The White Knight showed Thomas Schiff the coin. Heads. A shaking exhale escaped the thug's mouth._ _"I don't know anything!"_

 _"You're not playing the odds, friend." The coin was tossed once more. This time, when it landed, Dent stared at it intently for a few seconds. Then, he moved his eyes towards Schiff, a weird expression making its way on Harvey's face. "Tails." He was a good actor. And a good liar, too._

 _"Wait! The woman! He was with a woman!"_

The fish was cooked, cooling on the plate next to a pile of fresh watercress, chopped parsley and tarragon. Clara put it on the table, sitting down and taking in a deep breath, a breath full of the aroma of spices and herbs. The firsts bite was like a feast for her taste receptors. The second went down with as much pleasure as the previous one.

During his third year at Harvard, Jonathan began experimenting. Nothing serious at that time, only psychedelic herbs and weak chemicals. It was fascinating to watch him, entertaining to listen to his fantasies and ideas on how he intends to reform the world of psychology. Sometimes, Clara added her own insight, contributing to his plans and formulas of various future drugs. The woman was excellent at chemistry, after all. It didn't cost to share knowledge with your friend, did it?

 _Dent stared at the dark-haired man, void of any words, suspicion evident on his face. "What woman?" Schiff swallowed, his mouth shut once more. "I asked, what woman? Don't make me execute the initial action. What knowledge are you carrying underneath that thick skull of yours?"_

 _"I DON'T KNOW! Okay? I don't know! The woman. The tattooed woman. She was with him. She killed the other men."_

 _"The Joker works with a tattooed woman who killed his goons?"_

 _"YES! Yes! He told her to kill them during the parade after he killed the Mayor. She shot them, six of them!" He started shaking once more, wide-eyed and sweating like a pig. "He also said the surgeon is a very dear friend of his." Dent's eyes narrowed in confusion. The surgeon? A tattooed woman and also a surgeon? He couldn't think of one, his mind in a haze. The man kept staring at him, not blinking, just taking in deep gulps of air._

The trout was finished, Clara's stomach full of delicious fish. She stood up, making her way towards the sink with intention of washing the plate. Standing in front of a large window, her eyes lowered, she followed the movements of her own hands. The woman watched. Clara felt water running down her skin. And if she hadn't lifted her steely eyes at that precise second, if her gaze had remained lowered, she wouldn't have caught the moment when a large, wide-eyed bird smashed against her window, its wings spread wide, huge nails aiming for the woman's head. The window was closed. The creature hit the glass with such force that the construction of it vibrated. It fell at the same moment when Clara felt a sharp pain in her hand, shards of a shattered plate digging deep in her palm. Lowering her eyes, she saw red water running down.

"Fuck." Cursing silently, the woman quickly turned off the water, collecting pieces of the white porcelain with her good hand and throwing them into the bin. Then, she made her way towards the bathroom, where the first-aid kit was. Although the wound was probably clean, the surgeon still disinfected it with an alcohol-based solution, putting a white bandage on the fresh cuts. These were deep wounds, jagged and ugly-looking, promising some disgusting scars after healing if she didn't take good care of them.

Clara closed the door of the bathroom, stalking towards the front door. The bird was huge, and its force was humongous. She had to check the window later, to see if the creature didn't leave any cracks after ramming into it. Outside, cool breeze met her, ruffling Clara's long, dark hair, sending a smell of the forest nearby. It was probably an owl, hunting mice and snakes, and people's heads. Except, as she neared the exact same place, lit by the light from the inside, the surgeon didn't see the bird laying. A streak of red could be seen on the window and on the ground below, a few light feathers, like broken, twisted bones, laying on the ground. That's it. No broken-winged, scared bird, whose intentions were only to have a nice, large meal of her head. With one last curious, examining look towards the trees nearby, Clara went inside to retrieve a cloth and clean the blood. She couldn't live with that thing on her window. Birds can transfer various illnesses through their blood, and the surgeon had no intention to catch one.

Later that night, with her house clean almost to the point of being sterile, the woman went to the bed with a heavy heart. She didn't know why, but suddenly, out of the blue, a weird feeling, a suspicion rose. A flair that she wasn't even sure what about. A feeling of unease. Perhaps the bird startled her more than Clara initially thought. It might be. She enjoyed seeing, hearing them around, not like that, of course, banging into her window, but just... Around.

The Scarecrow could hardly be called a nature-lover. It was amusing to watch those rare interactions between him and the wildlife around the university's city, in the patches of the untouched environment. Nature didn't like him too, apparently. He had a way to ruin whatever connection that could be made with the outer world, to trip and twist his ankles, blaming the protruding roots and not his own attention-less strolls, to get into every possible swamp, to collect tiny branches in his hair. Bugs bothered the man, and birds annoyed him. They chirp too loud, he would say. They fly too close to my head, Crane would complain. Take that thing out of my hair, the man would command, when a tiny spider would tangle itself in Jonathan's brown locks. Flowers smelled too sweet for his nose, whilst pine was too fresh for the man's taste.

 _Thoughtlessly, Harvey Dent stared into space, ponding on this newly-found information. Finally, his eyes drifted toward the kneeling man. "If you don't have anything else to say, we might repeat the process again, my friend." He tossed the coin once again. Except for this time, it didn't land._

 _"You would leave a man's life to chance?" A gravy voice asked, forcing Dent's unwavering attention on himself._

 _"Not exactly."_

 _"His name is Schiff, Thomas. He's a paranoid schizophrenic, a former patient at Arkham. The kind of mind the Joker attracts." He moved away, a little further from them. "What do you expect to learn from him?" Harvey looked at the Batman with equal hate that he previously looked at the dark-haired man. He followed after him, keeping eye contact with the Dark Knight._

 _"The Joker killed Gordon - and he's gonna kill Rachel."_

 _"You're the symbol of hope that I could never be. Your stand against organized crime is the first legitimate ray of light in Gotham for decades. If anyone saw this, everything would be undone - all the criminals you got off the streets would be released. And Jim Gordon will have died for nothing." A moment later, the Batman added. "You're going to call a press conference. Tomorrow morning."_

 _"Why?" Dent took his lucky coin when the Batman handed back to him._

 _"No one else will die because of me. Gotham is in your hands now."_

 _"You can't! You can't give in!" But Gotham's White Knight shouted into the thin air. "Wait! We have a hook that we can use!" The atmosphere around him didn't change, but the man knew that he was being listened to. "Joker's thug revealed something. He said that the Joker keeps a woman nearby, a friend, someone who shot six men at the parade. The seventh bullet probably belonged to the clown himself." Dent went silent for a moment, taking in a much-needed breath. "He mentioned that she is a surgeon, although I don't know where he got that from. A tattooed surgeon." The man glanced towards where Thomas remained kneeling, a longing look in his eyes, then silently added. "And I'm sure he carries so much more inside that head of his that could be helpful to locate the Joker."_

Sleep came quickly this time. Perhaps the magnesium powder helped, relaxing Clara's stiff muscles and soothing her nervous system. An hour later, and the woman was already enveloped by a gentle slumber.

A low drum-like sound. A vibration. That bloody vibration nearby forced Clara to open her eyes. The fucking phone brought her back from the kingdom of fantasies and memories, and the woman had to physically force herself not to smash the device. _Control_. " _Yes-s-s?_ " She nothing but hissed the word out, unintentionally expressing her annoyance through the voice.

"Good evening to you too, Clara."

"Bruce. I didn't expect you to call so late."

"Well, I never expected you to call me at five in the morning. Call us equal." Mirth could be heard in Wayne's low tone, soothing the anger that Clara still felt. "Also, I'm calling with a request of very high importance."

"I'm listening." Sleep was absent from her mind now, thanks to the billionaire on the line.

"I would like you to attend a press conference tomorrow."

"I beg your pardon?" The woman slid out of underneath the covers, sitting in a Budha pose, the phone gripped tightly in her hand.

"A press conference, tomorrow morning, superior court. Don't say 'no', Clara. It's important."

"And what use of me will be there. I'm not a politician nor a public figure."

"You might not be, but I want you to be there." Silence followed Bruce's tired voice, neither of them saying anything. He waited, whilst she pondered why the man wanted her to attend the conference.

"Very well."

"Will you come?"

"Hmm."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes." Clara rolled her eyes, confirming her statement. "But I have high expectations, Bruce. I hope this will not be a huge waste of time. Should I be prepared for another speech?"

"I... Hope it won't, Clara. But I strongly believe that you have the right to know certain things." The sound of a woman's voice could be heard in the background now, and although the surgeon couldn't make what it said, she recognized the soft tone. "And no, this time you will only listen. No need to carry a novel inside your head. Anyway, I'm looking forward to meeting you tomorrow. Have a peaceful night."

"You too, Bruce." The phone turned black, indicating the end of the call. "You too." Looking at the time, it was way past midnight. If she has a conference to attend tomorrow, she'd better actually go to sleep now. It would not be attractive to show up with bags underneath her eyes as black as an abyss. Somebody might get confused whether Clara has got hit by someone or something. Except, the surgeon didn't move a finger. In fact, the billionaire, talking about the novel that she didn't need to carry inside her head, reminded Clara of her past. It was sort of funny, actually.

The things that men carried were largely determined by necessity. Among necessities or near-necessities were P-38 can openers, pocket knives, heat tabs, wrist watches, dog tags, mosquito repellent, chewing gum, candy, cigarettes, salt tablets, packets of Kool-Aid, lighters, matches, sewing kits, military payment certificates, and two or three canteens of water. Together, these things weighed between twelve and eighteen pounds, depending on the man's habits or rate of metabolism. One of them, who was a large guy, carried extra stuff. He was especially fond of canned peaches in heavy syrup over pound cake. Another one, who practised field hygiene, carried a toothbrush, dental floss, and several hotel-sized bars of soap that he had stolen from a hotel in Sydney, Australia. A much younger man, somewhere in his early twenties, was scared. He took tranquillizers. He was shot in the head outside the military village in mid-April. By necessity they also carried steel. It weighed five pounds, including the liner and a camouflage cover. They carried the standard trousers and jackets. Very few carried underwear. On their feet, they carried jungle boots. Two point five pounds and one man also carried three pairs of socks and a can of feet powder as a precaution against the trenched foot. Until he was shot, an African-American man carried six ounces of premium dope, which for him was a necessity. Some of them carried condoms, other ones - diaries, comic books, illustrated New Testaments and Bibles. Necessity dictated. Because one could die so easily, each man carried a large compress bandage, usually in the helmet band for easy access. Because the nights were cold, and because the ground seemed wet, each carried a green plastic poncho that could be used as a raincoat or a ground sheet, or a make-shift tent. The poncho weighed almost two pounds, but it was worth every ounce. In April, for example, when the scared man was shot, they used his poncho to wrap him up and carry back to the village.

The things that we carry. We ourselves know best what we need. If it is a Bible, or a novel inside one's head, or a plastic bag full of cannabis. Thomas Schiff had his own burden to carry inside his head. And the choices that we make, they largely depend on the stuff that we have on hand.

 _Song of the chapter: Ennio Morricone - For A Few Dollars More_


	15. Watch Me

Better. And faster, and stronger, and smarter. And wiser. Always trying to get a little of those things. We are trying to get _wiser_. That's one of those things, _wisdom_. Which, technically, wisdom comes from experience. So, how you do garner experience? By making yourself live a longer life? Doesn't exactly work that way. So what do we do to garner wisdom? We look to the past. You got to know your past, you got to know your history. History revolves around war. In many ways, history is war. And war is a human endeavour. The worst of human endeavours, but it is an endeavour none the less. And because it is a human endeavour, it reflects human nature. That's why we can learn so much from war, not just about the war itself, but about men. About human nature. And the same goes for principles of war. The principles of war can be applied to life, can be applied to businesses, can be applied to every human endeavour. It can be applied to relationships. A full spectrum of application. Nobody teaches you to use them. To consider the rules of war being applied to the real, humane world.

When you sleep, the morning comes quickly. It's kinda funny, really. When one's awake, the time goes by so slowly sometimes. Especially when there is nothing to do. Sleep at a certain degree was just like that - nothing to do, but lay on your back or a side with closed eyes, and... Do nothing. And yet, the time becomes a flooded river. It's enough to close your eyes and look, a moment later you open them again.

At least that was how Clara felt right now, as she went through her routine, preparing for the mysterious conference that Bruce so insistently asked her to attend. This morning, the woman omitted her usual weight-lifting routine for a calmer yoga practice. There had to be a balance in one's physical training, after all, and Clara had made sure a long time ago to develop a well-rounded physique to accomplish those various goals. Weightlifting was used to develop a strong body frame, strength and musculature. But whilst training only that way, soon one would run into an issue of becoming sluggish, slow and inflexible, and being that way in the military was hardly ideal. Therefore, you have to implement some form of cardio to keep your cardiovascular system in check, and stretching to maintain the mobility of the body. Yoga was always a great option in this field, forcing the woman to both stretch her body, and also maintain mental focus. It was tough, to say the least. Anyone who said that yoga is for the weak probably has never had a proper yoga session. It was a martial art you do against yourself.

The surgeon was quick to get ready. Rather formal attire was taken out of the wardrobe - short-sleeved grey button-up shirt and black, straight pants. The majority of her clothes consisted of the same style, after all. By constantly having suitable wear was simply a matter of time-saving. You don't have to think much about what to wear when almost everything is appropriate. The weather outside seemed nice and warm, so she could omit the jacket this time.

When Clara finally made it to the location where the press conference was set in, it was almost saddening that such a nice morning would be started inside a stuffy room full of people. Reporters, cops, the general public.

"Another inspirational speech, huh?" The surgeon stepped behind a dark-haired, tall man in a dark, striped suit. He flinched, startled from her voice. Clara manoeuvred around his frame, taking her position next to Wayne.

"Not really, Clara. Not this time. Though I'm glad you could make it." Bruce's voice was void of any emotions, posture rigid, indicating something unpleasant coming.

"I keep my promises."

"I know." Before either of them could say anything, the man of the hour, Harvey Dent, stepped on the podium.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for coming. I've called this press conference for two reasons. Firstly, to assure the citizens of Gotham that everything that can be done over the Joker killing is being done." With half-hooded eyes, Clara watched the White Knight moving his head, trying to create an illusion of making eye contact with everybody in the room. "Secondly, because the Batman has offered to turn himself in." The crowd around her reacted, and this time, she stiffened just like Bruce next to her. "But first, let's consider the situation: should we give in to this terrorist's demands? Do we really think that - "

"You'd rather protect an outlaw vigilante than the lives of citizens." A woman behind Clara asked, her voice almost mocking. The surgeon had to lock her jaw to keep herself from throwing back a replica to the reporter.

"The Batman _is_ an outlaw." Dent agreed, giving the noisy crowd an intense look. This time, his blue eyes met Clara's steely ones, acknowledging the fact that the surgeon was here, too. The man continued talking, but the woman didn't listen to him anymore. In her mind, she pondered what the fuck did Wayne think this time. Just... Turn himself in? Was he insane? He must have been. Completely and utterly delusional, that's it.

She did spend enough time with the Joker to speculate that Batman was more of an excuse to cause chaos, rather than the reason. If, of course, the clown even needed a reason. The Batman had a symbolic meaning to Gotham's citizens, whether they consciously realized that or not. If there was no Dark Knight, no arc-force to fight the dark, the hope would soon drain out of them, leaving only an empty shell behind.

The crowd around her cherished, and the woman felt Bruce move next to her a little. "So be it. Take the Batman into custody." Before turning around, Dent gave the surgeon one last glance, curious and more examining this time. It didn't last for longer than a few seconds, but it was enough for Clara to feel unease start to creep up her back. Finally, the man turned, offering his wrists to the officers. "I am the Batman."

This can't be real. A mistake. A grave mistake. A joke, isn't it? Something must have gone terribly wrong. It _must_ have. Because Clara, she couldn't have been wrong. She _couldn't_. Not this time. _Not. This. Time._

With unbelieving eyes, the surgeon stared at Harvey, as he had been escorted from the room, handcuffed and surrounded by security guards. As the man disappeared in the crowd, she slowly turned her eyes towards Bruce, frozen next to her. He, too, kept staring after where Dent has gone, not saying anything. _Wrong._

"Did you know?" Her low voice tore through the noise that the crowd of people made, close enough only for the man to hear. "Is this why you invited me? To show who the _real_ Batman is?" There was no malice in Clara's voice, only curiosity. Curiosity and scepticism.

"Yes." Wayne didn't look at her, keeping his eyes on the people around them.

"And _is_ Dent the real Batman? Huh?" That husky tone of hers held something indescribable in it, causing the man to finally turn and gaze at the woman. She met his brown, gentle eyes, communicating without words. _Wrong. I know. Wrong._

"You heard what he said." Clara nodded slowly, lips pressed tightly.

"Let it be, Bruce." The surgeon turned and manoeuvred her way out of the crowd, leaving the dark-haired man behind, staring at her retreating form. A moment later, she was already inside her Mustang, staring at the city in front of her. At the police cars. At the reporters. People.

Clara knew Dent was not Batman. She _knew_. In a very logical, argument-based way. After all, ten-or-so years of her life were spent next to physical beings, analyzing and memorizing their built. Their physiques. Musculature. Bone structure. When you know what to look at, the rest falls into places by itself.

The surgeon met Wayne a day before his party. But once was more than enough to take in the contour of the man's chin, and the way he used to press his thin, long lips firmly. And teeth. It is weird how much one's teeth could tell. A person can dye his hair, put in eye contacts, go through plastic surgery and change his face completely. But you rarely think about taking out and replacing your teeth, do you? Bruce had a very specific set of teeth. When he talked, you could notice his canines and first premolars, whilst his front teeth, central incisors, remained rarely seen. When Batman showed during the party, he came close enough to the woman for her to notice those minuscule details which for the majority would have made no sense at all. But Clara didn't belong to the majority. Not at all. And now, as absurd as it sounded, the surgeon put her money on the man based on his lower facial features.

Home sweet home. This is where she finally found herself. Stepping outside, Clara took in a deep breath of fresh, foresty smell of the suburban surroundings. _Home_. "Home, huh?" Mirth laced her voice, the pondering whether Dent was the real Batman or not momentary forgotten. "How so?" She shook her head, a tiny smile playing on chapped lips. Not for long.

A black van pulled into the driveway before the woman managed to get to the door, as if following her own car, noting when she gets home to pay a visit. Darkened windows prevented anyone from overseeing the driver inside, but Clara knew exactly who her guest was. She knew it just too well.

Jack stepped outside and started nearing her, those deep scars visible from a long distance. The man's face was bare this time, the purple suit exchanged for a simple black t-shirt and jeans. If Clara didn't know who exactly the man was, she wouldn't give him a second glance. Or would, actually, but for an entirely different reason.

"Look who's crawling back. Already miss me?" The surgeon half-shouted, sarcasm coating her words. The Joker stopped just in front of her, his jaw locked tightly.

"Crawling _back_ , huh? Do I look like a man who _crawls_ back?" Before she could answer, he gripped her upper arm, his fingers not going completely around the bicep, and dragged the woman towards the door. " _C'mere_." Clara watched the Joker pull out a key - _her_ key - from his pocket, unlock the door and force her inside. _So much for the private space._ That's how he was getting inside her house so easily. Not through a gaping hole in the attic, which Clara has never found. She allowed the man to feel powerful, not saying anything nor resisting to be dragged around like a rag doll. When they were inside, he closed the door and finally faced the surgeon. "If you were one of my _men_ , I wouldn- _t_ have _hesitated_ to put a bullet in your hea- _d_ by now." His eyes were black, two abysses staring at her.

"Should I feel lucky to not be one of them?"

"It _depends_."

"On what?"

" _Yo-o-ou_." Jack got even closer, bringing his handsome face right in front of her own. "Whether ya will be a _good_ girl and do what I _say_." The woman's eyes cooled down, harsh, grey colour stared back into the clown's.

"Do what? Follow Dawes like a lost puppy? Huh? Keep an eye on her?" Clara forced out a mocking smile, although, on the inside, she was hardly laughing. "Sorry, sweet pea, not my cup of tea. Perhaps, for once, do your dirty little works yourself?"

"You have _no_ idea what I do. And _trust_ me, ya _don't_ wanna turn down my, uh, _request_." A wicked grin formed on Jack's face, twisting those macabre wounds. The next words were barely whispered, but for Clara, they seemed like a Banshee's scream, echoing in an empty area. "After all, _some_ secrets are better left _buried_ , righ- _t_? _Dirty_ little secret _s-s-s_." Clara's eyes widened, the pupils shrinking to tiny, little dots. _He knew. How much did he know?_

"You... _Clown_." She hissed out, grimacing, exposing those white, straight teeth that were meant to indicate one's happiness, and not fear. Not terror.

"I see you accept my little task, _doncha,_ little _assassin_?" Silence met the man's question, frozen eyes staring at him. " _Now_ , back to business, shall we?" He turned around, motioning something with his hands. "I need ya to _bring_ the girlie to one place, _tie_ her u- _p_ , and _leave_. _Simple_ as that. Whilst _I,_ " He turned towards her, the grin back on his face. " _I_ will _follow_ Harvey Dent."

"And if you catch him?"

"I _will_ catch him."

"Okay." She smirked, rolling her eyes. " _When_ you catch him, what's next?" The Joker stared at her intently, half a minute passed by till he finally spoke.

"You _don't_ think he is the Batsy, d'ya?"

"How would I know that?"

"It's a matter of _belief_ , not knowledge, toots. If Dent is _not_ the Batman, that means he is a bai- _t_ to _lure_ me out, so the _real_ Batman could, uh, _play_."

"In other words, the only thing what would happen is you get into trouble by stepping into a well-placed trap."

"Is that a _sweet_ spot that y'have towards me _talkin_ '?" Clara lifted one eyebrow, staring at the man with dead seriousness. Joker neared her, invading the surgeon's personal space, placing two bare hands on her strong shoulders. " _Soon_ , very soon, you will see that the _world_ is not exactly how you think it is. Good _breaks_. The, uh, _Evil_ is not _always_ evil. Giving one a _choice_ is hardly evil, little assassin. Bu- _t_ ," He came even closer so that she could feel his breath on her lips. "when Good gets a _chance_ to _choose_ , ya will see it turn Evil. Because in the _end_ , even _Good_ will go for his _personal_ interest, and not the wellness of those around him." The Joker put his scared cheek to the side of her own face, nuzzling the skin softly. "What a _funny_ world we live in, little assassin." The woman closed her eyes, savouring the feeling of soft tissue rubbing against her skin. A paradox. Too much of a paradox.

Clara was hardly a woman of feelings. In fact, not at all. The majority of times, she used to ignore them till the moment when she could sit down and calmly analyze them. It's what the Scarecrow had taught her. Moral debates didn't bother her until she allowed them to, and it always happened in private places, segregated from others. But now, a war raged inside her mind, probably showing clearly in those stormy eyes of her. And the worst part was, the surgeon didn't even know why she might have wanted to help the criminal in the first place. It was scary to act on nothing. _Such a funny world, indeed._

"250 52nd Boulevard. Leave a speakerphone on the _ground_. Y'should leave the girlie in front of barrels. _Close_." The voice spoke near Clara's ear, making her skin break into goosebumps. "Tell he _r-r-r._.. That only _one_ of them, her and Harvey, is going to make i- _t_. That their _friends_ choose. Everything _else_ , my men will take care of." The clown abruptly backed, creating a distance between them. Those brown eyes stared at her, beautiful paintless face concentrated and examining. "Don- _t_ let me down, toots. The, uh, _consequences_ will no- _t_ be pretty."

"Don't threaten me, clown."

"You don't _believe_ me to expose your true identity, d'ya?" The madman grinned, his teeth glistening in the sunlight that came through the window. At some time during their talking, they moved towards the living room, now standing in front of the empty fireplace. " _Well_ , little assassin. Try no- _t_ to do what I _politely_ asked. And then _watch me_." He finally turned, walking towards the door. Not looking at her, the Joker added. "By the way, I, uh, _borrowed_ your bazooka earlier this morning. For an _indefinite_ amount of time." Before Clara could say anything, he opened and closed the door, gently and so dissimilar to the first time when he paid the surgeon a visit. And even if his departure was delayed, she wouldn't have had anything to reply.

The Joker did give her a choice. A choice between being exposed, or become a part of a crime. Embrace the tiny creature that continuously slept inside her head, never disappearing for too long nor too far. What did the clown say, huh? Even Good will go for his personal interest, and not the wellness of those around him. Clara considered herself belonging to the good, not harming side. The majority of the time. But now, when the alternatives were presented, a self-preservation instinct kicked in, forcing her to choose the less painful option. Less painful for Clara, but hardly others.

After all, the woman was a survivor.

She took in a deep gulp of air as if breathing for the first time. Clara _did_ feel dizzy as if not breathing for three, four, five minutes. Time went by quicker than she would like it to. A long-fingered hand started feeling around her pockets, looking for a small device. Taking out the phone, Clara dialled a number that she had remembered by accident when looking through secured papers from Lucius's drawer.

 _"Yes?"_

"Hello, Rachel." The phone was silent for a moment, the woman on the other end trying to figure out who was calling. It didn't take too long, though.

 _"Doctor Moore. That's doctor Moore, right? We've met at Bruce's party."_

"Yes. You are correct."

 _"Where did you get my number? It's a private line, you can't find it that easily. Has anything happened for you to call me?"_

"A friend of yours provided it, after hearing the reason for my need."

 _"I'm listening."_

"Is there a possibility for us to meet this evening? I have... Sort of an emergency going on, and I need your help."

 _"What is that?"_

"You're assistant district attorney, am I correct?"

 _"Yes."_

"There is this... Situation, which I have no intentions discussing on the phone." Rachel was quiet for a few seconds. She was a quick thinker - Clara noticed - responding well to high-pressure situations. Probably a quality, achieved with long work-hours in the field of law.

 _"We can meet this evening, I will text you the final location soon. Right now, I'm not even sure where I will be. Everything's so messed up, Harvey and everything. Is that alright with you?"_

"It is."

 _"Should I prepare anything? Is your situation serious? If something, I can contact a reputable lawyer to come with me and discuss it together."_ The concern could be heard in her soft, gentle voice. A genuine worry for Clara's well-being. The surgeon swallowed hard, staring at the grey wall in front of her.

"No need, Rachel. At least not right now. First, I want to make sure there _is_ something you, folks, can help me with."

 _"As you wish. Is this your number, or are you calling from the hospital?"_

"It is my personal phone."

 _"Then I will text you the location when I know it."_

"Good." Clara closed her steely eyes, jaw locked tightly, almost to the point of being painful.

 _"Well... See you in the evening, doctor Moore. Bye for now, I guess."_ Her bright tone echoed in the surgeon's ear, not cheerful, no, but not expecting anything bad to happen either.

"Goodbye." _Watch me, Jack. Watch me._

In the military, there were some rules in terms of one's physical appearance. Clothes, uniform, or a white doctor's coat should have always been spotless and wrinkleless, face cleanly shaved, hair tamed. If women wore makeup, it had to be subtle, bare touches. After coming back, the majority of time Clara's long, black hair were left down, nothing in them, bare of braids and ponytails. But now, she felt as if being in the war again, stepping in a high-pressure situation once more, so it seemed only suitable to prepare for it, not just mentally, but physically, too. The surgeon took her silky, straight locks into one low, tight ponytail, not leaving any untamed strands. A mission, it's what it was. A simple assignment. Nothing more.

Clara went inside the room that she used mainly for experimentations. A home-lab, if it needed to get an official name. She took out powdered, pure diphenhydramine, putting a little bit of the substance in a plastic bag. Now the surgeon was ready.

A few hours later, Clara was sitting inside her Mustang, driving to where Rachel was waiting for her. Or, to be more precise, to the coffee shop first, where she ordered two cups, one black, and the other with some milk and sugar. She hoped that the woman would like it, and since milk and sugar were the most popular ingredients in the typical coffee, the surgeon opted for those two. That, and the fact that sugar would suppress the taste of the drug. Before she started driving to her final destination, Clara put the diphenhydramine inside the lighter drink.

There was a reason why the surgeon opted for diphenhydramine, and not, for example, Rohypnol or ketamine, although she had them both standing right next to it. Whilst they were effective enough to delete one's memory for a few hours, these drugs were not that easy to get your hands on if you were a common citizen. These problems didn't exist if you're a doctor. If they happened to find a very confused Rachel, the blood work would show exactly what was used. An illegal drug, which would indicate a violent assault. Not with diphenhydramine. The thing is, diphenhydramine was actually used to treat insomnia and the overdose of it manifested as sedation and confusion. If someone would run blood work on her, they might get to the conclusion that Rachel used too many sleeping pills. Bearing in mind the current situation, Dent admitting being the Batman, nobody would be surprised if the woman needed some aid when falling asleep.

From a fair distance Clara have already noticed her standing, looking lost and... Lonely. She parked the Mustang right next to Rachel, stepped outside holding two cups of coffee in her hands. "I thought you needed some." She murmured, motioning with her cup-holding hand towards their surroundings. A bleak building, grey, cool evening, a gloomy vibe in the air. She caught a small, barely noticeable smile on Rachel's lips when she turned towards her, eyeing the black, sleek car.

"You guessed correctly. Tough day, doctor." She took the cup, immediately gulping down the already cooled liquid. "So, what it is that I needed to help you with?" Clara kept a watchful eye on her prey. It only takes a few minutes to start working. With such a dose, perhaps even less.

"Well, to start with, there is this man."

"A man?" Rachel lifted her eyebrows, giving Clara an examining look which already started blurring.

"Hmm. A very annoying one, may I add. He wanted me to deliver you a message." The surgeon stepped just in time to catch Rachel before she fell to the ground. "And I would, I definitely would, if only you were slightly more conscious and understood what I say." Now Clara started doubting whether she didn't give her a little too much of the substance. The effects shouldn't have been so abrupt. "Nevermind. Let's not stress about it, shall we?" The surgeon dragged Rachel towards her car, leaving two cups with spilt coffee on the ground. She laid her in the back seat, leaving the woman for a moment to collect those two cups and throw them into a public bin. No need to litter around. Also, they might cause suspicion. No need for that either.

It took at least ten minutes to reach the location which the Joker indicated. Luckily enough, the area was empty, people inside their home warming, cozing around each other, since the day was grey and too bleak to spend time outside. Clara stepped outside, rounded the car, and lifted Rachel in her arms. The woman was light to hold, comfortable enough to carry inside an abandoned building. Just like Jack had said, there was a wall of barrels behind a single chair, ropes left on the ground. She put barely awake Rachel on it and started bounding her.

"What... Are you doing?"

"Tying you up." With these words, she started wiggling, moving her arms and feet. "Stop doing that, Rachel. You will only fasten the ropes even further. It's a blood knot. Even I couldn't release you now."

"Why are you doing this? What will happen to me?" Now she started panicking, terror could be heard in that gentle tone of hers. Clara stepped from behind so that they could make eye contact. Slowly, she lowered herself in a low-squatting position so to be in the same height.

"I honestly don't know, Rachel. Probably something horrible. As for why I'm doing this..." Clara licked her chapped lips, keeping those stormy eyes on the woman's panicking ones. "There are some things that I've done in my past that my future is being threatened with. Horrible things, just like this one." She stood to her full height now, turning around and going towards the exit. The surgeon heard Rachel murmuring something behind her, but she hushed it out, ignoring the woman's plead. Her mission was completed.

"Don't leave me!"

"Watch me, Rachel." Clara closed the heavy door, turning off the shouts. She made her way to the car, driving back home. _Home_.

Trust and wisdom. Two things that were hard to gain. But trust without wisdom was hardly an ideal case.

As Clara stepped outside, two men met her, police cars parked in front of her house. "Clara Moore? We are here to investigate the sudden disappearance of Ira Lowsen fifteen years ago and your connections with this woman."

 _Watch me, little assassin._

 _Song of the chapter: Linkin Park - In The End (Mellen Gi & Tommee Profitt Remix)_


	16. One Bad Day

Ira.

A name that the woman hadn't heard in fifteen years. A name that she used to respond to for nineteen years. A name that was once hers. A name. Just a name, but also a failed attempt to leave the past attached to it.

It was all too easy to remember everything, alone, sitting in an isolated cell, no one around. Just the surgeon and her thoughts. The deep corridors of her ancient mind.

Ira Lowsen was born in 1974, August 7th, in a junkie family, with her mother too high to understand that the water broke and she's bringing her child into this world. And it certainly remained a mystery how Ira survived that sunny, warm day, left untreated and on its own for a few hours until the bearer realized what had happened and finally fed it from her breast, with drug-contaminated milk and a constant echo of the once beautiful voice cooing near her daughter's ear.

She tried to be a good mother. She tried really hard, and sometimes, Claire Lowsen could almost be called successful. It lasted till the first hit.

Who knew what would have happened to Ira if not her grandfather's, Claire's father's, help and financial support. The girl would probably have ended in the same pool as her parents. But for small repays, the man provided her proper basic education, and then, later, the higher education, too. He helped her become human in the most direct way, at the same time destroying anything humane within Ira. The old man introduced her to Jonathan Crane at the age of nineteen, a potential American student at Harvard, in an attempt to break that psychotic part of Ira that got out from her head at times, making the young body do horrible things. Her grandfather wanted to help her create a fulfilling life, the one that resembled normality and peace. The one which suppressed that ancient mind of a predator.

For many years, Ira was a wild card. Unpredictable and harsh, she would isolate herself from any human interaction, except the weekend meeting at grandfather's mansion. After the incident with the little bird, during light hours, Ira would either read books from his library, borrowed back home and hidden from her parents, or experiment, slicing bugs and insects in half, introducing methamphetamine to street cats, trying to make frogs swim in acidic water, or, if she happened to catch two animals at once, introduce one to another, watching them fight. Once, the girl had found a large snake which she kept for a few weeks, feeding the occasional mouse that visited her home. And then, one particularly large rat, instead of being given dead, was introduced to the snake alive. The rodent ate the reptile. The next morning Ira found a dead, long, headless corpse with a rat inside.

These were the girl's days until she hit sixteen. That is when the dark period of Ira's life had begun. She was introduced to the life of British gangs, exposed to their philosophies and ways of living. Still attending school, Ira managed to do both her assignments and also the 'gang business', as everyone used to call the constant disappearance of various people. Ira became a low-key assassin. Unsurprisingly, this character just naturally stuck to her personality, creating a monster. Numerous men eliminated, even more than that adorned by scarred smiles on their faces. Weirdly enough, Ira developed a fascination with close-contact combat. Close enough to feel the same vibration that she first felt when crushing the bird. Close enough to feel their warmth, to see light leave their eyes, misery and terror taking its place.

When others hesitated, Ira continued their tasks. If others lacked determination, the young woman encouraged them to continue. If she herself stopped to think for a moment, she couldn't reason her own behaviour. A strange, ruthless creature just lived inside, twisting her mind and the voice of sanity. And it worked. For a long time, it vindicated every drop of blood in the goblet of pain. And somehow, the present Clara knew that it would still succour when trying to keep her place in this world.

Despite becoming somewhat of a leading figure barely in her late teens, Ira always remained reserved to herself. She rarely talked with others if it was not gang-related, stayed away from social gatherings, didn't communicate much. It was a weird situation that the young woman had placed herself into. To some extent, just like every human being, like a young, lively person, Ira craved interaction with others. To be approached by her peers, talking, just _talking_ with, being considered as a part of the group. And yet, it never had happened. They remained to themselves, whilst Ira was left with herself, and only herself. Naturally, it was a huge change when the future surgeon finally met the Scarecrow. Not only he accepted her for who she was, but also shared similar qualities that she was banned from her peer's group for. The intellect. Dry sense of humour. Crazed fire in the eyes, when an innovative idea entered the brains. The connection. A weird feeling of _belonging_ somewhere.

Sometimes, the missions were not that successful. Sometimes, they cost Ira her own blood. One time, when she was eighteen, the young woman was caught. Caught and mutilated, just like every other victim of hers. They cut out her uterus, in an attempt to give the assassin her own medicine. But Ira rarely made mistakes when doing her job, just like now, she was an idealist, a perfectionist with a plan, and she used to follow her plans to the last detail, therefore eliminating harsh faults of her mission. Unfortunately for the vengeance seekers, they lacked her planning. Their mistake was to leave the half-alive body in a pool of blood. The creature survived, rising up, an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach due to additional free space. Now, Clara knew what started happening, she often saw it occur within her patients. A human body is a compact mechanism, where everything is put tightly. When you take out one part, the others start taking its place, enlarging in size sometimes, but mostly just moving.

At this point, the assassin had to heal. She stayed home, among those badly aged human-beings that were hardly humans anymore. A monster among materialized nothingness. A twisted mind among washed-out brains of addicts. A wendigo among corpses. And it took only one bad day to finally snap and end their pathetic, vegetative existence, sustained just with a hit and an occasional badly-made sandwich.

Ira's grandfather had found her a few days later, concerned why his granddaughter hasn't visited him that weekend. The girl had an immune system of a hundred put together, and nobody ever had seen her ill. It was only natural to assume that something bad happened if she missed an appointment or a meeting. The man rescued her from the empty house, making sure that not a spot of dirt had made it to his granddaughter's name. Unfortunately, his power and connections could reach so far. Ira was already well-known for her behaviour, if not by her teachers, then among those who she mingled with.

A few weeks into the hiding, Ira Lowsen, the daughter of Claire Lowsen-Moore and Henrick Lowsen disappeared from the face of Earth. The late child of the seasoned professor Moore took Ira's place, materializing into a different human-being, unfortunately, possessing the same character traits that the young woman once had. A few weeks later, with her new identity, she applied to Harward to study medicine. A month later, she was introduced to the future Scarecrow, creating a bond with a mind that was just as complex as her own. Clara Moore was born, not from blood and body, but from lies and dead, cold ashes of the past. And she rose. Hardly like a phoenix, though.

Wild years, that's all that the woman of the present could say about them.

In this lonely cell, it was easy to reflect her past, staring at the white wall, bitting off the skin of chapped, already bloody lips. It was easy to remember what created her be who she was, and what lead her to sit in this cold, sterile room.

Clara's head snapped up as she heard someone unlock the door, stepping inside. Her eyes widened, staring at a ghost entering the cell. A calming, relaxed smile stretched the ghost's mouth, his hands in the air in a reassuring manner. "Relax, doctor."

"Gordon."

"Still a Commissioner, doc."

" _Commissioner_ Gordon." A one-sided smirk made its way on Clara's face, too, seeing the supposed-to-be-dead man very much alive. "What a pleasure seeing you in the world of the living."

"We share a mutual feeling, doctor Moore." The man sat down on a chair that happened to be there as an extra, besides the one that Clara was sitting on. "And, although as much as I enjoy being here, with life also come duties. And nothing else but duties bring me here." His blue eyes stared at the woman in front of him, examining her calm exterior, collected expression.

"Hmm."

"Nothing else to say, doctor?"

"I'm waiting to hear the accusations." Those grey eyes met the force of James Gordon's gaze, waiting, something ancient and cunning lurking behind the steel. The man coughed lightly as if clearing his throat.

"What makes you think that you're accused of anything? Perhaps you're here to just be questioned."

"Don't think I'm naive, commissioner. I have been working in the field of medicine for over a decade. Both crime victims and suspectors were constantly coming and departing. One does not lock someone up just to question him." Gordon swayed his head to both sides as if mentally debating with himself. The man wore his heart on the sleeve, his emotions, slight hesitancy and uncertainty apparent, clear as a day.

"I must agree with you here, Clara. You currently are in the red zone. But if you collaborate, perhaps we can find the truth the easy, painless way. I really don't want journalists to ruin your reputation."

"Could I be informed on what field exactly are we debating? It might be a little challenging to justify myself if I don't know what exactly I've done."

"We don't know it either, Clara. We've been informed that you may or may not be connected to Ira Lowsen, who disappeared quite a few years ago. And you know the most fascinating part of her vanishing?" He met the woman's stoic expression. "When we dug deeper in this case, nobody had reported her missing, except one single person then, and one now. But here we run into a problem." Gordon bent closer to Clara, following closely her reaction. "The only relative that we could find is you. Everybody else... Let's say they didn't live up to their senility. Murdered, and then left to rot for several days. Your _father_ included."

"Where exactly are you going with this, commissioner?"

"According to the family records that, surprisingly, have been left untouched, Ira should have been your niece, keeping in mind that her mother was your sister. Right?"

"Yes."

"Bu- _t_ ," The man emphasised the word as if imitating the Joker's manner of talking. Except when for Jack it came naturally, Gordon's tone sounded off. Artificial. "our informer stated different relative bonds. He gave the idea that _you_ are the real Ira Lowsen. And you know what? It could actually explain a few things."

"Just as correlation is not causation, the hypothesis explanation is not the real deal either, Gordon."

"How could you explain the fact that nobody reported Ira missing, except one person?" Silence met his question, indicating the encouragement to continue. "If you can't, I will. You see, there is no need to report someone missing if the person is not missing. You might have been walking among them with a different identity, and yet nobody would have seen your new name. Except, every social performance was now done under the name of Clara. When it was time to attend university, everybody accepted it as a natural thing - little Ira has grown up, departs to create her own life."

"Have you actually found any evidence of this... Hmm, trail of events?" Now it was time for Gordon to quiet down for a few moments, his jaw pressed tightly.

"Such an interesting town you've been living in, Clara. When we asked the civilians about you or Ira, their lips stayed tight. I must say, talkative about crops, silent about people. Your _niece_ was a scary one to be around, wasn't she?"

"Indeed. But that means the only evidence-based fact that you have are two people's reports on Ira Lowsen's disappearance."

"For now, yes." Now it was Clara's turn to lean forward.

" _Commissioner_ ," the woman hissed out the word, her analyzing grey eyes locked on the man who was so persistently implying the detrimental conclusion. "Why do I get a feeling that you are... I don't want to say biased, but... Well, extremely frantic to prove you're right?"

"Ira is guilty of many unsolved murders. I'm looking for justice, that's it, doctor."

"Of murders that occurred in the depth of Great Britain a long time ago, without even the citizens complaining. Besides, it's quite a distance from Gotham, where you have your power. Are you sure it's just the great crimes of Ira that make you so desperate to find and punish her? Isolate _me_?"

"Is there another reason?" The surgeon stared at him, not blinking, trying to determine what's inside of the man's head.

"No."

"I hope not, Clara. I'm afraid I must leave you here for now. Not for too long, if you're lucky enough. I have another man to question." James Gordon stood up, all the time feeling that sharp gaze of the woman. "We've caught the Joker."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you. But right now, I have a feeling he will cause more trouble in captivity than he did when roaming free." The door of her cell opened and closed, leaving Clara alone once more. Good.

The conversation with Gordon explained a few things. The first being that someone knew her well enough to recognize the former assassin, and now she's being suspected for her past crimes, although their evidence is based on practically nothing. Another thing, the police does not know about her little missions with Joker's thugs and Rachel. And hopefully nothing about Clara's connection with the clown. A puff of air escaped the surgeon's lungs. _Good_. But who's the mysterious creature that knew who she was? He, or she, might cause even more trouble, and needs to be eliminated as quickly as possible.

Clara's analysis was disturbed by yet another visitor, this time a man dressed in a bat suit. It wasn't hard to fool around with the commissioner, even though he was a wise man. Batman was another level. "Where is she?" The gruff voice, so unlike Bruce's, asked Clara the question that gave everything away, and the surgeon felt her confidence falter. _He knew._

"I beg your pardon?"

"Rachel. Where did he hide her?"

"Why should I know?"

"I know that you're involved. You were stupid enough to leave one of his thugs alive."

"And you do trust Joker's goon's word, Bruce?" The Batman stilled. She could hear his breathing, coming in and going out, the quiet puffs declaring Clara's theories.

"How?"

"Took me some time." She noticed his fists clench. "Much harder than to solve a sudoku. And yet easier than it will be to find Ms Dawes." Bruce took a step forward, nearing the surgeon. "You shouldn't trust strangers so freely, Bruce." She saw a determined clench of his jaw.

Now, imagine yourself at the moment. The moment just prior to the battle. Don't think as a soldier whose training has made him into some kind of superhuman. The training that you've been through hasn't changed the fact that you're a human being, after all. All warriors are human beings. Think about that time before you're going to the battle because that's the time you can actually think. When you're waiting. When you're waiting to go. And if you're going to feel fear, it's because you have time. The preparation is done, the planning is done, the gear is prepared, you're dressed, and you're ready to go. And now you're just waiting. Waiting for the call, or for the signal, or for the command to execute. And so you have time to think. The only thing that you can do is think.

"I'm warning you, Clara. Don't. Test. Me."

In that moment, what do you think about? Are you thinking about your family? Friends? You think about your life, death? Maybe you're thinking 'How did I get myself into this?', or perhaps 'How do I get myself out of this?' Or perhaps you're just sitting there, rethinking the orders that you've been given? Maybe you're thinking about your friends getting killed or wounded. Maybe you're thinking about yourself getting killed or wounded. You could be thinking about so many different things. But one thing is certain. Whatever you are thinking about, whatever those thoughts are, those thoughts are clear. Those thoughts are an insight into your true nature, into your true nature, into your soul.

"What will you do, Bruce?" Gentle Brittish accent broke through the surgeon's tone, and yet her eyes stayed mocking, infuriating the Batman.

What about the cleansing of the mind? What about the purity, which seems to only be revealed by the blood, and violence, and combat. When you think these thoughts, there is this moment when you realize that what's killing us... Is us. Other humans. Who are they? What are they? Why are they here, and why am I here? There is only one answer. Forward. Forward into the battle. Toward the smoke, and the bullets, and the fire, and pain. Towards death, to face it without fear in your heart. Perhaps war is the highest addiction of them all. Once in your mind, never goes away. And when you possess the instinct of fighting, you attack everyone, with everything you have, with every ounce of commitment. Attack with your weapons, and your mind, and your body, and attack with your very soul. And maybe that purity is what we miss. It's what Clara missed about combat.

She ducked the upcoming fist, twisting her whole body. And although Clara missed the first one, the second punch collided with her oblique, forcing out the air from her lungs. "You're not playing around, are you, Bruce? Huh?" The surgeon let out a bemused chuckle, at the same time stepping to the side. The man was beyond angry, like a rabid bull going for his prey, the matador. "Hasn't anyone else disappeared, besides your precious friend?" It was her chin now that felt the impact, forcing Clara's head backwards.

"STOP! You will kill her!" A different voice from somewhere behind shouted, outvoicing the surgeon's hoarse laugh. "We need her for information!" It did the trick, leaving panting Clara leaning on the wall, a sarcastic smirk twisting the side of her bony face.

"Listen to the wise man, boy. Back off." And the huge man did exactly that, escaping the mocking blue eyes, leaving her staring at the door that was closed immediately after.

She didn't know how long it took for her to fall asleep sitting in front of the wall. Minutes, hours? Long enough for something outside to happen, because the next thing that Clara felt was a gentle shake, a nasal, deep voice called next to her ears, sending goosebumps all over her body.

" _Ira_."


	17. Ships That Sunk Down

"Wakey-wakey little _gi-i-irl_." Clara's eyes snapped open, hand rising to hit the intruder. The intruder, who smelled of fire and smoke, and gunpowder. The intruder, who caught her arm with ease, as if anticipating the move, and stared at the woman through hooded, black eyes.

" _You_." The clown's face broke into a malicious grin, both of his arms sneaking around Clara's shoulders, gently and in an almost comforting-like manner, confusingly so. The touch sent a dissimilar message when compared to his facial expression. "You told them who I am."

" _Did_ I, huh?" His smirk grew, at the same time the man forced Clara up, supporting her weight with his arms, allowing the woman to lean on him. " _How_ d'ya know, little assassin?"

"Because you are the only one who knew. Somehow."

" _Really_? Couldn't it be, uh, your _other_ friend? The doc with a _funny_ hairstyle? He knows too, after all, doesn't he?" The Joker had to almost drag Clara out the door and through corridors as her frame would have simply collapsed if not the support of the man's body.

"He wouldn't have. Some people know what it means to keep their knives in the pockets." The clown twisted, placing himself in front of the surgeon, facing her with those deep, bottomless eyes, void of any malice now. They seemed serious for once.

" _Listen_ , toots. Y'can _moan_ and cry, and blame and _accuse_ me of whatever ya wan- _t_. Inside. Your. Hea- _d_. I _shoved_ you _in_ the cell. I _took_ ya _out_. You _ar-r-re_ in the same state as before." The Joker lowered his gaze a little, taking in the barely standing woman. " _Almost_ the same. Y'get the point. _Now_. If you wanna escape, y'gotta sto- _p_ _weeping_ and start _followin'_ me. _Or_ ," He lowered his head to one side, staring at the woman from underneath the lids of the eyes. "you can stay _here_ and wait till the cops come and collect ya. Or even better, wait for _Batsy_ to get back."

This time, Clara was silent. She swallowed noticeably, her jaw locked in a death-lock. The betrayer became her saviour. Such a funny world she lived in. With a slow nod, the surgeon swallowed her pride, limp-stepping towards the Joker, who embraced her with a cheeky grin, the seriousness gone. "Atta _gir-r-rl_." They manoeuvred through the silent building quietly, only the Joker muttering an occasional mumble when they were forced to either speed up or slow down depending on the possible threat in front. " _Batsy_ got ya _well_ , little assassin." After a while, the clown finally acknowledged Clara's bodily state. A bit late, she mused on the inside, considering the fact that he dealt with the majority of the woman's weight for over ten minutes now.

"I will live. Don't worry too much, sweetheart."

"Who said I was, uh, _worryin_ ', _darling_?"

"You seemed concerned." Sarcasm didn't escape the man's ears, but he brushed it away, answering calmly.

"Ya mistook my emotional state, toots." He hummed a weirdly familiar tune underneath his breath, readjusting his grip on Clara's waist to make it a little more comfortable. They were almost outside, the exit already visible. "Can ya _walk_ on your own?" When a dead stare met his gaze as if asking whether the answer is not already obvious, the man clarified. "A few meters. There is a, uh, _black_ car on the corner, in the _spot_ where no cameras can detect it. But the _entrance_ is being _watched_. If we _stumble_ outside in each other's embrace, _somebody_ might think we're, uh, I _dunno_ , lovers?" He gave the woman an arrogant grin, tapping the side of her oblique, which made Clara hiss in pain.

"Haven't they already seen us? It seems that we've had a marathon marching through the building."

" _Nah_. My men turned off the majority of cameras. Had some _time_ , while I was searching for _Lau_. Stumbled upon _ya_ , though."

"Naivety made me think it was me you were searching for. But when I actually think about it, why would I ever consider that as an option, huh?" Clara leaned on the wall, successfully getting free of Joker's arms, a tired expression making its way on her features. "Go. I will follow you in a few minutes." He stared at her for a moment longer as if mentally debating with himself. Whatever side of his mind won, the man turned around and soon disappeared behind the heavy door. The Joker was gone. Not for long, hopefully.

Now, Clara finally had time to check herself. The surgeon endured a weird feeling in her legs, as well as her ribs. Touching gently, she made sure that they were not broken, and her legs seemed externally fine, too. It didn't explain the pain, though. Bruce Wayne was a strong man, after all. He might have cracked the ribs and backbone, possibly damaging a few nerves in the process. The woman was able to walk, painfully and sluggishly, but still could, so the damage shouldn't be that fatal.

Then, there was also another problem, which involved the clown. There was one thing that Clara was sure about, and it was the fact that she couldn't trust Jack. He had already betrayed her once. This time, his treachery had cost Clara her job, social status, possibly home, and almost the freedom. The surgeon didn't want to know what would come next if the lunatic happened to decide that he had had enough of her.

 _Run._

Running away was hardly an option. Gotham became her home in the most literal way. Here was Jonathan. Here were her beloved guns and weapons. Here were the criminals that she grew to rather enjoy, at least something to keep an ear to at night. Here also was Jack, whose company, although grudgingly, Clara had to admit she happened to be rather fond of. And although betrayed, she couldn't control that irrational part of her mind which kept clinging to the idea of staying with the psychotic man, trying to crack him open like a delicious nut, seeking for what's on inside. He intrigued her, just as much as he annoyed the woman. He was an enigma, a man who enjoyed causing seemingly pointless chaos and anarchy. He was a dog chasing cars. A mad dog that nobody could ever control.

Slowly, she straightened up and went towards the exit. Her body felt numb, and the feeling reminded her of those countless times in Israel. Yes, it was a rather familiar state which she happened to memorize by heart. Even all those long month of comfort weren't able to completely dull the memory, therefore now, faced with it once more, she remained calm and collected.

She neared the black van, the only vehicle on the street, and opened the door. Immediately, the smell of gunpowder enveloped the woman, sending tiny shock waves of awakening through her body, making the tired brains work once more.

" _Hurry_ u- _p_ , toots. We don't have a whole day." The man impatiently tapped the steering wheel, not looking at Clara, but instead keeping his gaze on their surroundings. The woman let out a heavy breath, climbing inside the passenger's seat. If not for the Joker, she might have just sat down and stay on the ground, that's what lone animals do. Wait and clean their wounds in silence. But when the man was present, she had a weird feeling of resistance and pride inside of her. The pride which forbid Clara to collapse and simply give up. Although the surgeon barely felt her lower body, she remained noiseless.

As they drove away, there were still a number of questions inside Clara's head which required answers. The curiosity killed the cat, right? Well, it's a good thing the assassin was not a cat.

"Jack?"

" _Hmm-mm_?"

"Were you humming Ozzy Osbourne's song before?"

"I _dunno_. Heard it _inside_ your car once." It made Clara lift her eyebrows, twisting her head towards the man.

"We weren't listening to music."

"Does it have to be ' _we_ ' for _me_ to be inside your car?"

"Of course not. Stupid me, huh?" The woman's sarcastic voice seemingly made no difference for Jack. It started to almost concern her, the lack of his usual biting mocking and the creepy grin. Something was going on.

"It's _good_ you at least admit i- _t_. The first step to _everything_ is _acceptance_ , little assassin."

"Are you making fun of me?"

" _No_."

"What happened to Rachel?"

"Tha- _t_ was out of the _red_ , toots." The Joker kept his eyes on the road, but from his profile, Clara noticed his eyebrows furrowing. " _He_ chose _her_ , didn't he? He _must_ have." The quiet mutter didn't escape the assassin's ears.

"So you don't know?"

" _Nah_. But I can, uh, _guess_. And if _we_ knew Batsy well enough, it's not a _difficult_ guess."

"So it's just as you said then? Personal interest?" The clown nodded, confirming her question. The guilt started to blaze somewhere deep within Clara. "But the locations were wrong, weren't they?"

" _Why_ d'ya think so?"

"Because it's you." A small smirk showed on the man's face, barely visible in the dim light. The evening was setting in, painting their surroundings in darker colours.

"I taught ya _well_ , little assassin." Clara rolled her eyes, turning those grey, misty orbs to the road again.

"No, clown. I'm just a good psychologist. Once a liar will always remain one."

"That's a _very_ pessimistic way of thinking, _Ira_." The woman's eyes remained on the road, but the Joker could see her jaw locking tightly as he took a short glimpse at the assassin. She clearly disliked the name, or more so the memories that it brought. And the man could almost sympathise with her. Almost.

"Jack."

"If a dog _bites_ you, ya don- _t_ have to bite _back_ , toots." The woman stayed silent, so he turned once more, taking in her rigid posture and static, tight press of lips. The clown sighed. " _What_?"

"How did you know?"

"I said I _didn't_ know it was, uh, good ol' man Ozzy _singin_ '."

"Don't play stupid with me. You won't fool me once more."

"I am no- _t foolin_ ' ya, little assassin." Clara closed her eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath. Letting it out, she grabbed the steering wheel with one hand, ignoring the momentary pain in her ribs. As she controlled the van to drive towards the side of the road, the woman pulled the hand brake to stop the vehicle. The Joker didn't say nor do anything, not a sound of protest escaped that scarred mouth with paint which had almost rubbed off. He only watched the serious woman twist in her seat, lifting up the beaten up and yet still functioning body, which was seemingly created to move forward, to do its thing. To survive.

Clara straddled the man, keeping eye contact with him. Cold, steely grey met bottomless black, which was dimmed even further in the evening's light. There was no mirth in either of them, no humour. No emotion, just a reflection of each other. " _How_?" The darkness that sometimes clouded her tone, that husky, low voice appeared, ensuring Jack that it was not a topic that could be delayed.

"I've had a _friend_ , Ira. And I could _not_ have asked for a _better_ friend." He watched the surgeon's eyes widen, recognizing her own words being thrown back at her. "And _trust_ me, he _did_ have faults- _s-s_. The _raw_ ones, which kept _hauntin_ ' him at night." Joker's hands moved lower, feeling the tight muscles in Clara's - Ira's - thighs. "And he used to often judge himself for them. Sometimes, his judgemen- _t_ was _too_ hard. Too _harsh_. But he was a _man_. In the most literal way." He was silent for a minute, before continuing. "He was five years older than me, fully grown, like a leading _character_ to me. An idea of wha- _t I_ wanted to be in a few years. A _soldier_ , fighting overseas for America's welfare." In that dark gaze, a sudden blaze lit up. A crazed one, staring at the woman in his lap. " _Y'know_ , little assassin, humans _-s-s_ are like _ships_. _Ancient_ ones. _Slowly_ you, uh, _replace_ their parts, until you're left staring a- _t_ something _completely_ unfamiliar." Clara furrowed her eyebrows, trying to follow this sudden change of the clown's mind path.

"What happened to your friend?"

"He _changed_. A part of him got _damaged_ , and had to be _replaced_." A slow smirk grew on his lips, twisting macabre wounds. " _One_ day, he got _back_ from Britain. Military work, he said. They were _collaboratin_ ' with Brittish army. And guess wha- _t_. He got back _prettier_ than he was _-s-s_ before. With two _gorgeous_ red lines running _upwards_ his cheeks." The Joker was grinning now, showing his white-ish teeth, the yellow paint wearing off slowly. "What happened to ya, I asked. The _devil_ , he answered. The _devil_ had found me, and _kissed_ me. The _devil_ , incarnated into a _woman's_ body, whose kisses were as _sharp_ and _deadly_ as a, uh, knife's _slash_. A _woman_ , huh? I couldn't believe him. A soldier, strong as a bear, adorned by a mere _girlie_. Not jus- _t_ a _woman_ , Jack, he said. An _assassin_ , lurking in the _shadows_ , waiting for her prey to come a _little_ closer. And I gotta admit, as he was describing his experience, I, too, started _believin_ ' that it was the _devil_ himself, embodied to cause _pain_ and _misery_ amongthemankind." His hands did their job, massaging the tight muscles harder and harder as if empathizing his words with actions. "But my friend _changed_. Touched by the devil, he never was the same. My identity remained, but it was sustained by feeding it with the _memory_ of his pre-accident persona. I went to the military, was rather successful, I must admit to my own credit. And trus- _t_ me, after a few _years_ , when _this_ happened," Joker's tongue darted out, licking the bottom lip, or more likely the minuscule scar on it. "I couldn't believe the _irony_. It was _hilarious_."

"What happened to him afterwards?" The surgeon's voice was emotionless, to say the least. Detached and neutral. You wouldn't have guessed it was her own past crimes that were talked about. They might have just discussed the weather outside, small drops hitting the front window.

"I _dunno_. Haven't seen him for over five years now. The last time was also the most _humorous_ one, as we both were adorned by matching _smiles_. Best friends have matching _tattoos_ or share something similar. We've had the same smile. Couldn't _distinguish_ one from another, _trust_ me. Of course, I ended up being the more _handsome_ of our pair." The clown grinned, tapping Clara's limbs gently. "Ya _good_?"

"Amazing. You're a great massagist, Joker."

" _Joker_ , huh? Back to, uh, _nicknames_?" The surgeon lifted one eyebrow, examining the man in front.

"Nickname? Are you serious?"

" _Yeah_. _He_ used to call my young self a joker. Said I had a well-developed sense of _humour_. It might have been true, after all. Grew up into a, uh, fine _humourist_." It cracked a small, one-sided smile on Clara's chapped lips. She could swear, sometimes he was a fine humourist indeed. When not running around with a bazooka in his hands, and not blowing up various materials.

"You know what?"

" _Hmm-mm_?" The woman leaned forward, their noses almost touching. She noticed his eyes get hazed and moved her head to the side, pressing lips to the scars.

"We should get back." The body underneath her froze, then relaxed, and an annoyed sound left the man's mouth.

"Y'can't be serious, toots. _Now_?"

"Hmm. Lau is waiting, isn't he? You mentioned something about him. I figured out those idiots that you tend to hire are not exactly the most trustworthy folks to look after that man." As she met his pissed-off gaze, Clara couldn't contain a wide smirk anymore. Those white, straight teeth with unusually sharp canine rudiments were exposed, indicating the surgeon's amusement.

" _Yeah_. When I _think_ about i- _t_ , ya actually might be _right_. Get _back_ into your seat." The Joker didn't wait for her to obey, pushing Clara back himself. She hissed as he pressed a hand to her ribs and a sadistic smile made its way on the clown's face. "What's _goin_ ' on, _honey_? Everything's _good_?"

"Just _perfect_ , darling." She threw him a dirty look, getting a little more comfortable in the seat. With one last look, the Joker turned on the engine, driving away from their spot in the empty road. The night has finally set in, hiding everything and everyone from their sharp gazes, and as the van reached Gotham, no one was outside anymore. The world belonged to them, if just for a few hours until the early citizens start to crawl outside from their life-graves of comfort.

Clara was no fool. She didn't trust the humming man next to her. Although now Jack didn't behave like the Joker, he was still him. He could bite, and he had sharp claws. He could betray without a second thought. And that probably was his main problem. The man didn't think twice before destroying something as precious and delicate as a human's life. And neither did Clara. After all, it was what made her sit here, in the dark van, in the first place. Lack of self-doubt before acting. Lack of thinking before taking control of the situation. A single differ in behaviour, and someone else would sit here, in the surgeon's place, be victimized or worshipped, or perhaps neither. Maybe, just like them now, just being talked with. Who knows?

The old ships sink down. They always do, if not changed, if not transformed into something completely new and modern, something that is adapted to new challenges. And even if they do, new ships will take their place, replacing the old with contemporary. That's how this world works.

They didn't drive to Clara's house, after all. Instead, it was Jack's home where they went. Both the assassin and the anarchist wordlessly agreed that it might be dangerous to show up where Clara lived, barely a few hours after the infamous escape. At least for now. After all, she lived in a suburban area with only a few neighbours around. One of them was isolated, a misanthropic old man who rarely showed his eyes outside his possession. Also, a widowed cat-lady, who worshipped the surgeon for saving her pet. So much of a rescue to take out a splinter from its paw. There was also a whole family there, occupying the third house out of four, having a calm, peaceful existence in the countryside-like area. Overall, not exactly the public to be considered as a threat, but the police might also visit the region for at least a few days. Until then, she had to stay low.

"No more favours, clown." The woman spoke for the first time since their departure. They both were staring at the house, without moving an inch.

" _Huh_?" Joker sounded momentarily confused, tearing off his gaze from the building and instead seeking for clearance of her statement.

"I won't go in first this time."

"Oh. _Nah_ , no need for tha- _t_. It's _dark_." With those words, he opened the door and got outside, Clara following his lead at a slower pace. Her legs felt weird once more, but, she realized, it was more likely because of the rib damage, rather than the backbone breakage or a split somewhere. If you crack the ribs near where they connect with the back, it might cause quite some discomfort, similar to the nerve pinch. Without the X-ray, the surgeon couldn't know for sure, but she has had enough experience to reason this hypothesis. And it caused a massive relief to realize that she probably won't lose the ability to control her legs anytime soon. Good.

Joker unlocked the door and got in first. Clara, trailing behind, rolled her eyes. A gentleman indeed. The raw difference between her past experiences when the soldiers waited for her to enter the building before them, and now, the insolent man who simply left the door for the surgeon to close. And she did exactly that, after staggering through the doorway. The clean, simple environment met her, immediately relaxing fired-up nerves and calming down the body. Safe. For now, she was safe.

Without Jack's call, the woman manoeuvred to where she knew the living room was, collapsing on the couch with her legs on top. A low groan of satisfaction escaped from somewhere deep within her throat. Finally. Not for long.

"Get _up_." The man loomed above her, staring at Clara.

"Why?"

"Gotta _check_ ya u- _p_. I don't have time _gettin_ ' rid of another body." She lifted one eyebrow in suspicion, questioning the clown's intentions.

"Since when do you have a degree in medicine, Doc? Can I really trust your abilities?" Clara sat up, staring at him with now clear amusement glinting somewhere within the grey. "Besides, I've already diagnosed my illness, Doc. Nothing to be concerned about."

"In a few days, we will have a, uh, _mission_ , toots. Ya gotta be _sound_ and _whole_. So sto- _p_ _resistin_ ' and let's _go_." Finally, with an annoyed sigh, the stubborn woman obeyed, trailing beside the host.

"A mission, huh? It doesn't sound well to me."

" _Who_ asked your _opinion_ , Ira?" The woman chuckled silently. A gentleman indeed.

"Rude, Jack. You're ruder."


	18. Commando

Laying in the clown's bed, staring at the ceiling. Tucked safely underneath the covers, hearing the man silently breathing into her shoulder. He was on Clara's left, therefore Joker fell asleep with the Flying Dutchman's tattoo staring back at him. He was a weird man, indeed. His sleeping habits were bizarre, but nighttime routine completely reasonable. He projected normality in various fields, and that's what always confused Clara. After all, shouldn't the most notorious Gotham's criminal be sleeping in a coffin, or at least have a bath of blood in the evening? Something highly unusual? Instead, he was not just a neat eater, but also a neat human-being in general. His house was spotless, the bed free of any traces of substances that shouldn't be there, the bathroom, too, didn't have anything unusual in there. When compared to Clara's home, the Joker's house might have been confused with a politician's, who could allow himself to have a daily cleaning by a maid.

The weirdness of the man emerged only when he was asleep. Clara remembered noticing something out-of-place before when they were sleeping at her's, but the surgeon didn't care to analyze that at the time. Now, on the other hand, the time was her friend, and she had the whole night for the medical examination.

The Joker didn't lay on the pillow like a normal human. Instead, his head was placed way below it, only the tops of the greenish hair touching the soft material. Therefore the man was able to keep the eye-to-shoulder contact. Blowing gentle gusts of air into it, he forced tiny goosebumps to appear on the woman's skin.

With a deep sigh from her own lungs, Clara relaxed. She was used to the exasperating thoughts emerging out of nowhere, at random times. Disgusting thoughts, various stories and experiences, staying in her head for longer than she would have liked. Or simple, ordinary worries, undemanding ideas. Various wonders, refusing to leave the woman's head, during the most inconvenient times. If she was operating and something like this happened, Clara would sing a song inside her head. Following the lines of a poem of some sorts was helpful too. And now, the surgeon would have started to do exactly that if not a nasal voice interrupting the quietness of the bedroom.

"Sto- _p_ _thinkin'_." Clara stayed unresponsive, just staring upwards. "I _know_ you're not sleeping, little assassin." A slow smirk stretched the woman's lips, transforming the shadowed face into something less gloomy. Into something more humane.

"Have you considered the option that I was indeed sleeping, and you've just woken me up?"

"You were no- _t_."

"I wasn't."

"Why's tha- _t_?"

"I don't know. A different environment perhaps?"

" _Hmm_ -mm." The man t=rolled onto his back, stretching the long body, tutting silently. " _We-e-ell,_ " Joker put his hands behind his head. "then you can take the _guilt_ of forcing _me_ ou- _t_ of sleep too, little assassin."

"I'm not forcing you to stay awake, clown. It's your own choice."

"It's no- _t_ , as I don't feel _safe_ being awake with an assassin breathing down my neck. It's _your_ fault for being awake, toots."

"Your logic is flawed."

"Your, uh, perception is _narrow_."

"Right." She received a low chuckle from the body besides.

"Righ- _t_ _, huh_? Are ya _agreein_ ' with little old me?"

"I am."

"You never do tha- _t_ , toots. Did Batsy _squish_ your brains a little, uh, too har- _d_?" The chuckle transformed into dog-like barking, drowning the dark room into a humourless laugh. The woman turned her head, not saying anything. She simply stared at Jack with her eyebrows raised a little. His mocking died down, and the man turned to her once more. " _No-o-o_ , huh? _Runnin_ ' out of ideas here, little assassin. Help a little." Not receiving an answer, he sighed. " _Right_. If not talking about ya, then tell me a _story_." This melted Clara's rigid exterior slightly. Story-telling was a safe zone.

"What kind of?"

"I _dunno_. Something about _war_ as it is the _only_ thing that ya have anything to say abou- _t_." The misty gaze turned back towards the ceiling. A momentary silence enveloped the room, and yet, Jack knew that it won't last long. For him, Clara became a rather predictable woman.

And he wasn't wrong.

"A few years ago, I was sent to Iraq..."

"Wait a sec, I thought you were in Israel?" Clara rolled her eyes.

"I thought I was supposed to tell a story, and not answer your questions?" Without waiting for his answer, the woman continued. "In Iraq, as you know, a militant group called ISIS is in power. They tend to cause a lot of trouble not just for native people, but for the remaining world, too. But lately, the group has been continuously losing control of its cities to the Iraqi army and U.S. military allied against it."

" _Yeah_ , I'm _familiar_ with the information. Although I never cared enough to actually analyze what kind of _weirdos_ are those _clowns_."

"Well, ISIS is actually supposed to be a religious group whose ideology represents radical Salafi Islam. They promote religious violence, and regards Muslims who do not agree with its interpretations as infidels or apostates."

"It would be _nice_ if only I _understood_ what you are saying to me." With a sigh, Clara slowly explained.

"Infidel is a term used in certain religions for those accused of unbelief in the central tenets of their own religion, for members of another religion, or for the irreligious. Apostasy is simply the formal disaffiliation from or abandonment or renunciation of a religion by a person. ISIS does not allow people to have atheistic beliefs, to put it even simpler. Am I clear?"

" _Hmm-mm._ "

"I did spend quite some time in Iraq, together with my team that I responsible for. And we've met various people there. A rare person actually agreed with the ISIS's philosophy, and even rarer wanted to talk about the horrors experienced in their camp. But some did. And I happened to be one of the few that lived to re-tell the story."

" _Very_ dramatic, little assassin."

"It should be, clown." Clara took in a slow breath, her gaze was unwavering, facial expression cool and stoic. "There was this girl. A few months into being there. Perhaps more like a young woman already. Still, a child in my eyes. She was rescued from the ISIS's camp, taken care of by the U.S. military. She've told the American soldiers how's everything in there." The woman's tongue darted out, wetting her chapped, dry lips. "They asked them to take off their headscarves, and loosen up any buttons to reveal their chests. The courtyard became a marketplace where ISIS men came and chose girls they liked. First, they sent elder women to one place, and the women with babies and children to another. The girl didn't know the whereabouts of them, and that included her mother and sisters. She'd had her period that night, and no matter how much she told him, he did not believe her. He ordered her to strip naked in his room. Then he stuck his fingers in her vagina, and saw that she was indeed bleeding." Disgust appeared on the surgeon's face, disfiguring the once attractive features into a macabre mask. "Only then did he believe. That did not mean that he left her alone. The girl said that he then turned the air-conditioner on a really high volume, said that she's to sit still the whole night in her nudity, and he molested her throughout the whole time. By the time morning arrived, she was frozen both physically and physiologically. It continued for a week until she escaped and ran to us." One of Clara's hands rose towards her mouth to rub the lower lip lightly, then lowered towards her neck, stroking the deep hollows just above the collarbones. "They all had long beards and long hair, but the worst of all was their smell. She'd never smelled such an awful smell in her life. They do not bathe. I haven't come into such close contact with them myself to get a whiff of their odour, but I imagine they feel more like beasts than human. As long as the girl had some breast, she was considered a woman, and that entitled them to rape her. Some girls were as young as ten and eleven years old. She had no past and no future at that moment. She was stuck in her anger and her pain at what ISIS did to her family, her community and herself. I noticed she developed a habit of washing her mouth several times in an hour, as a result of what they did to her." As the woman finally fell silent, the quietness continued for a good few minutes.

"When I said ' _story_ ', I was not, uh, expecting a _disgusting_ one." The Joker's voice was flat, no emotion projected in it.

"You said 'war'. I gave you the war. Simple as that."

" _Nah_ , I was no- _t_ asking for a _rape_ scene. No- _t_ a _fan_ of rape, toots. Not. One. Bit. Give me something else." That forced Clara to turn her head in disbelief.

"So now the war is filled with rainbows and unicorns, huh? Just because a certain someone is not a fan of reality?"

"I was not, uh, saying _that_. I asked ya to give me _war_ , not rape." The surgeon could detect a shadow of boredom in the clown's nasal tone, which sparked annoyance inside her.

"Good. In fact, I have experienced something very intriguing. Myself, this time. Not a mere girl, crazy with her own pain, unable to give us some real information." Clara lifted her upper body, twisting, turning around graciously, facing the laying man. He, too, moved a little, bare, scarred face projecting an honest interest. "Just one month prior to my departure back to the U.S., I went to an island. An island where the dead piled up. A terrible scramble, I would say. People crowding and fighting around the bags of flour. Dead bodies everywhere. A hundred or more, and lots of people crying 'Give us bread!'. 'Miss, it's been two days since we've been given anything to eat. They're trying to make us die of hunger and the cold.' They told us that people had begun eating dead bodies. That they were cooking human flesh." The surgeon followed Jack's reaction closely. She noticed the side of his lip twitch slightly.

" _Jesus_ , woman. _Where_ have you _been_?"

"Far away, clown."

"I can tell tha- _t_."

"Good. I appreciate that you've managed to get at least that from my nighttime story. Continuing on, the scene on the island was dreadful, appaling. Throughout the next three days, my men counted seventy additional bodies. In five cases, they emphasized, the liver, the heart, the lungs, and the fleshy parts had been cut off. On one of the bodies, the head had been torn off, along with the male genital organs and part of the skin. These mutilations suggested strong evidence on cannibalistic acts. On the same day, the deportees themselves brought us three individuals who have been caught with blood on their hands, holding human liver. And there was an elderly peasant woman who reported the same that we've seen ourselves." Clara crawled upwards a little, making herself more comfortable so that the ribs wouldn't start hurting all over again. "There was one guard named Costia. A young fellow, he was courting a pretty girl who had been sent there. He protected her. But one day, he had to be away for a while, and he told one of his comrades to take care of her. But with all those people and the chaos around, the comrade couldn't do much. People caught the girl, tied her to a tree, cut off her breasts, her muscles, everything they could eat. They were hungry. They had to eat. When Costia came back, she was still alive. We've tried to save her, but she had lost too much blood. I couldn't stop the bleeding." The assassin gave Jack a pointed look. "Did you enjoy this story a little bit more than the previous one, sweet pea?"

"No, but I started _wondering_." The Joker interlocked his hands, giving Clara a curious look. "There are some, uh, _things_ that I don't understand, toots."

"I'm all ears."

"The _first_ being, as far as I am informed, is that ya ran _from_ your pas- _t_. But it _seems_ that the _only_ thing that you actually did is run _into_ it. No- _t_ from it."

"It's hardly a question."

"I said I _wonder_ , not that I will ask you anything."

"I see."

"But you're _free_ to answer." With this, the man gave her a charming smile. "Back to the topic, shall we? Ya didn't eliminate the old environment."

"The difference is that I wasn't running around murdering people. At least not actively."

"What did the, uh, _therapist_ say abou- _t_ _that_?"

"Jonathan?"

"Yeah."

"If you hadn't realized yet, he's not my father, nor my boss to command what to do. Furthermore, the change in character, but not the environment was rather helpful. It showed me that I can indeed behave differently, even in the same situations."

"I will let this one slip for now. Nex- _t_." The Joker caressed his lower lip with the wet tongue, thinking deeply. "What have ya been doing _there_?" The question confused Clara. She didn't understand where he was going with this, as the answer was seemingly obvious.

"I'm not sure what exactly do you mean."

"I asked you what have you been doing in such place. _Nothin'_ toget confused about."

"Apparently, I was on holidays. You know, taking a break. Relaxing." The sarcasm was evident now, getting through the seriousness of Clara's tone.

" _Docs_ are supposed to stay sound and _safe_ within the walls of a camp, no- _t_ wander around to get themselves _killed_."

"Are you trying to imply something?"

"I _am_."

"That's very smart of you. To your own credit, I wasn't just a doctor. After a year or so, the leading bodies noticed my abilities in the battle beyond just the medical field. I was placed under the sharp eye of authorities, and then, a few more months, and I finally became a _commando_ myself. Being one meant also travelling with my men wherever they had to be."

"So _this_ is where that _motherly_ instinct of yours came from."

"I beg your _pardon_?" With disbelieving eyes, Clara watched the man grin in the dim light, which was coming through the window. The sun would rise in a few hours, traces of the upcoming new day already evident in the horizon.

"Did I _stutter_?" His grin widened, transforming into a malicious twist of the disfigured mouth. The woman blew out the air that she was holding, and with an impatient sigh lowered herself down.

"Idiot."

"Watch your _tongue_ , Ira. You're getting _braver_ and _braver_ with each passing _hour_."

"Thanks to you and your insufferable statements."

" _Insufferable_ , huh? Isn't it a, uh, _wrong_ usage of the word? Inaccurate context, perhaps?"

"Jack."

"It's _me_."

"I really don't understand whether you're playing smart with me, or are you serious."

"I migh- _t_ just leave it for ya to _decide_." They both fell quiet. Clara was back on her back, analyzing the fraud riddle that the man had just bombarded her with, whilst Joker was just... Well, he was the Joker, tutting underneath his breath.

The suspicious normality of their positions, the relaxed behaviour was disturbing. They shared minuscule pieces of their pasts with each other, at least Clara did so, and from the facts that she presented and from his reactions they both were able to build some kind of patterns, proceeding the laying out of the puzzle further and further.

The main thing that attracts someone, is a mystery. A riddle, if you want. A secret that a person carries. An enigma. The cracking of the uncrackable nut. And in the meantime of forcing out one's deepest secrets, you get used to the person next to you. At least that's how Clara understood the situation, and she knew that the Joker, with a tiny, sane part of his brains, realized that, too.

Finally, a dreamless sleep drowned her in its slumber. The woman didn't know nor feel a pair of dark, bottomless eyes staring at her for a long time after the molasses-like state enveloped her. Like a hawk, the man traced the barely visible lines of inked skin, hollowed and rising areas of the graceful, powerful body, debating mentally with himself. For the first time in many years, Jack was lost. There were far too many options to choose from, and he didn't particularly like it. Having the ideas were good. Possessing too many of them could be dangerous. And now, when faced with the possibilities, he had to think throughout the potential outcomes. The Joker had to plan. And it wouldn't be particularly bad if he knew that the situations would turn according to those plans. But there also was a wild card somewhere in the deck. An uncontrollable woman, a _commando_ with the spirit of steel. He could try to trick her into doing something, but that might work only for a short duration of time until she cracks his great schemes. He can use force, of course, but that also would benefit him only for so long, until he turned his back to her. A choke from behind would come immediately, except this time it might not be as merciful as it was before. He can reason. Logical arguments, huh? There was only so much logic behind what the anarchist intended to do. Emotional pressure? Not with the ancient creature that laid somewhere within the woman's mind. Not with the soldier that experienced the horrors of war.

When the man finally dozed off, a new day was breaking through the dark.

 _"Don't allow yourself to be outsmarted by a woman, Jack. Helen was the downfall of Troy. I wish you will never meet your Helen."_

In Jack's dreams, there was a tall, dark-haired woman in his dreaming self's peripheral vision. He tried to catch a clearer glimpse of her, but the creature kept moving around. Before he gave up, a smell of something foul burning reached his nose. Low voices of men could be heard, singing a ghastly tune. The odour of scorched flesh was the last thing before everything transformed into the blackness.


	19. Around The World

" _Ira_."

"Clown?"

Dark, tired eyes in a bare, slightly pale face met steely, cool grey. A half-dressed, or more like half-nude man approached a dark-haired, tall woman, sitting on top of a bar outside the house, in a private garden, which seemingly had no purpose except for just being there. He took in a view of Clara, who probably woke up hours before him and already reached the middle of her morning exercise. Just as if the previous evening, cracked ribs and the need to be dragged around like a rag doll didn't even exist. The ex-commando was resilient as a cat, springing back to her optimal functioning immediately post-trauma.

A different story could be told about the Joker. Before continuing on with the pull-ups, Clara took in the state that Jack was in this morning. Blinded by her own discomfort late at night, now, when the man stood in front of her only halfway covered, the surgeon was able to see blueish marks, turning green and yellow. The Joker took his beatings together with her. Although the bruises didn't look dangerous, some of them seemed particularly painful, marking otherwise perfectly segmented, slender torso. The man grinned seeing her stare.

"So _who's_ the good doc now, _huh_? I nursed ya back to health in one _day_ , toots. When was the las- _t_ time when _your_ patient got better in a _week_?"

The woman lost her interest in Joker's torso, sliding off of the bar and continuing with her exercise. Completing another five or six reps, she released her grip, falling down with a grace of a predator. "I feel better than I thought. But I doubt the same could be said about you."

"Why's _that_? _Feelin'_ amazing, little assassin." Joker watched Clara throw an examining look his way, distantly inspecting the damage. She didn't stop next to the man though, passing him, heading towards the house.

"Sunnyside up? Over easy? Poached? Hard-boiled?" The questions reached Joker, making his head jerk towards the sound.

" _Huh_?"

"Eggs. How do you want your eggs?"

" _Who_ are ya, _stranger_?" A low chuckle tore from the man's throat, celebrating the newly-founded, tender side of the weird woman. "Feelin' like a _kiddo_ again, being called to the, uh, _kitchen_ minutes after waking u- _p_ and _jerking_ _off_ in the shower."

Silence met the Joker, stretching for much longer than necessary. His body was turned towards the door, through which one could reach the kitchen. Therefore, the man immediately noticed Clara nearing them, leaning onto the frame and staring at him with that penetrating, piercing look of hers. A cup of something steaming was held in one hand, a loose t-shirt - _his_ t-shirt - hanging on her wide shoulders. "Don't confuse me with someone I'm not, J."

" _Good_. Then _who_ are you, so I could, uh, call ya according to your _real_ label? _Huh_?" He watched Clara move her head from one side to another, cracking her neck. Hollow sounds died immediately, without any echo, still leaving a suspiciously bitter taste in Joker's mouth. It was like bones breaking, crushed underneath a hefty weight. Yet, he didn't say anything.

The Joker noticed a few patterns of Clara's behaviour that emerged mindlessly and effortlessly, a long time ago. The cracking of joints was one of them. Often, it occurred accidentally. She was like a walking dry branch, constantly producing dry, hollow sounds. But Clara also used to crack her knuckles and neck by herself, annoying the man without even noticing his reaction. Like now, simply standing in the doorway, deep in her thought.

"You gave me a question of the year. I'm not sure about the answer. Personal maid, perhaps?" Her response dripped with sarcasm, but the Joker saw the real impact, actual pondering inside the surgeon's troubled mind. "So how should I make your eggs? If you want to do something stupid today, you need the help of good food." Change of topic, huh? That rarely happened before.

"I wan- _t_ them _scrambled_. Beaten the _life_ outta them."

Nodding once, the woman disappeared. A barely noticeable scent of clove reached the man, who slowly made his way after her, dissipating quickly. He had something in mind. " _Honey-y-y?_ " Jack half-shouted, so Clara could hear him.

"Sweet pea?"

"Change in plan _s-s-s._ "

"What kind of?"

"We're no _-t_ going _anywhere_ today." He was already in the kitchen, looking at the surgeon's wide back, transforming into a trimmed torso.

"Why is that?"

"Dunno. Not _feelin_ ' like." Clara threw him a lazy look from behind her shoulder, one eyebrow raised in obvious mock.

"Just admit that you're getting old. Can't keep up with every day's intensity, huh?" She was doing weird movements with her hands, noises were heard, and the smell of _something_ started floating around. Joker wasn't sure what that _something_ was, but he could recognize the unmistakable sizzling of eggs.

" _Yeah_. Just like you can't, uh, _stand against_ the young Batsy here anymore. _Time_ catches up, _huh_?"

"Words of wisdom, J."

Moments later, the assassin turned around, a plate of delicious-smelling food in her hand. She moved towards the table, placing it there. "Ya didn't happen to dro _-p_ some _poison_ in there, did you?" A keen, one-sided smirk tore through her chapped lips.

"Why would you think so?"

"I _dunno_. A _feelin'_ of some sorts. Call it _intuition_ , toots."

"Hmm. It's good to have one." Clara bent down, lifting a fork and taking a bite of Jack's scrambled eggs, chewing slowly. Her point was proved.

The woman sat down, attentive eyes on Joker. "If we're not robbing banks, or killing asylum's patients, then what are we going to do? Not that I have to be anywhere."

"You seem _overly_ enthusiastic." Motioning towards the already half-finished plate, he added. "It's _good_. Although I don't know _what_ I'm eating."

"Not a fan of sitting without any work to do. It's purple basil. A little more pungent than the sweet basil, therefore, used less frequently in culinary. But I like it a lot. Found some in your garden."

" _Basil_ in my _garden_?"

"That's what I said. Basil, some wild oregano, a few sprigs of marjoram. A great garden you have."

"You seem to know spices by hear _-t_ , little assassin."

"It's because I do." Joker licked his lower lip. The arrogant woman was fully back, no previous trauma in view.

"Back to the, uh, _topic_. Since you _can't_ poke your nose out from the house, I can't _send_ ya outside." The last bite disappeared, chewed throughoutly, despite the fact that his food was soft, mushy, hardly anything to bite into. "But I've go- _t_ _something_. Here, inside, that ya can work with." He caught her curious gaze, grinning. The bait was mouthed up.

"I'm all ears."

"I need _bombs_. _Lots_ of them. Good, _quality_ stuff, toots." With a yank, the hook buried itself in his victim's cheek. " _Lots_."

After showing Clara his technicality's room, in which various devices and parts of them were located, the Joker disappeared. And for the first time in weeks, the surgeon didn't care what he was up to. She hadn't made anything explosive in years. Years. The technician within her craved the action, and currently, the Joker provided exactly that.

Technically, to make a bomb, one doesn't have to be a genius. Not at all. But the devil hid in the details, just like in the majority of things. Put a finger against the hammer, the gun will not shoot. Create a tiny, invisible hole in one's stomach, he will die from the spilt acid. A little salt in eggs, you will be able to break the egg whites down, creating a perfect scramble. A few drops of ammonium nitrate in a cocktail of other ingredients, like diesel oil and Semtex, and _boom_. Nothing's left. Who would have thought that the fertiliser and fuel oil might create something deadly?

It was easy to get herself lost in the process, not thinking about the consequences of her creations. Ignoring the outcomes. Just doing what she enjoyed. And in her actions, there were bits of irony. Pieces of tragedy, because the things that she loved were harmful to the outside world. The Joker ignored society and provided her with stuff that gave her honest pleasure, whilst almost everybody tried to stir her from those activities. Was it Clara's fault that she found excitement, where others saw pain? Doubtful. Chaos was her Romeo, a marriage doomed to die. And she tried, hard and without remorse, to get rid of the poisonous seeds rooted inside, only to succumb and return back to where it all started.

That's how the Joker found Clara. Looming over a complex device, strong smell of ammonium in the air, hair braided in a long, silky rope. For a few minutes, the man stood in the doorway, taking in the way her long, bony fingers gently twisted, de-constructed, poured and wiped.

"I can hear your breathing, clown."

The man grinned. She was still there, the strange woman. An ancient creature within the walls of modern society. A body, shaped like an old-day warrior, out of place in the nowadays world. And the mind, the sharp mind, too cruel and unreasonable, too wild to live caged. Too delicate to endure the madness of the century.

Like a wild animal, Clara followed Joker making his way towards her. He had his whole attire on, except the jacket. By the way his paint was worn-off, she guessed he had just come home. A dozen of freshly-made bombs laid in front of the assassin, the last one in process of being finished.

As he neared her, the man crouched, sitting on his heels. "Have you ever wante- _t_ to travel ' _round_ the wo _r-r-r_ ld, little assassin?" The question seemed out of the blue. Clara straightened her spine, only to round it once more, long, powerful legs put on the chair, chin on the knees. "Pack a bag, get in the car, and drive away?"

"No. I've travelled enough in the army. Being home, wherever 'home' was at those moments, seemed much more lovely." Her gaze drifted somewhere for a second, only to return back to where it was previously, locked with the Joker's, this time, amusement and something else glistening, _burning_ in them. A cold fire blazing, echoes of it reflecting in Jack's face. "But I _know_ a way how to travel around the world, J. A way that even I do enjoy."

" _Yeah_?"

"Hmm. Through seas and mountains, and bottomless oceans." Clara's angular face was relaxed, jaw muscles, typically protruding through the thin skin, nearly invisible. "And you know how to do that, too. You know that very well." Sharp canines shone before the momentary visibility was hidden behind another set of lips.

Biting. Licking. Intruding and invading. Two strong, flexible bodies entwined, suddenly on the ground. A smell of gunpowder and clove, ammonia and diesel. A smell of desire. Their clothes were lost, ripped from each other, bare skin exposed. Two angry, animal-like voices growling, groaning. As Clara locked her legs around Joker's torso, it only took one push for her to throw her head behind, a voiceless scream buried somewhere within her chest. The man continued moving, feeling her insides slowly tightening up, feeling his own stomach muscles starting to contract, pressure building up.

Push, pull. Push, pull. The assassin made weird noises, but not like the squat bar that she abused so often, and which squeaked underneath the hefty weight. Her voice was deeper, huskier, throatier. Almost two hundred pounds, that's how much a typical soldier, a man, and also a squatting bar weighed. Two hundred or more pounds now weighed her down, pressed the surgeon to the ground, giving the pleasure that no saint could imagine, because if they did, there would be no saints. Clara could feel her quads slowly giving up. She's ready. She won't be able to hold anymore, to swallow down the pleasure. To save herself from the vulnerability that came together with it.

 _Push. Are you listening, Ira? Can you hear my voice inside your head? Can you hear my words,_ _echoing, shouting, calling you?_

 _Pull. Let's go. Go? Where? You know. Over that bridge between sanity and madness._

 _The night of madness, a dark ceiling above us, a tiny window, through which I know you can see the moon. You can, because I can see the moon on your face, its reflection in your eyes, in your cold, ancient eyes. And I know you can see the fire in my eyes, hot sparks that could burn through your skin, reach the deepest, most secure part of your ancient, twisted core._

 _Moan, Ira, crawl, cry, lie to me, poison me, till that avalanche from the mountain reaches and drowns me in the sea of snow, till the banknotes start falling from the sky, raised and thrown by the vortex, till all the coffins will be opened, and we will be called to The Last Court, me and you._

 _I will shade you with my body, your body between broken devices, vires and dried blood, life juices that never belonged for you, never for you._

 _Ira, my righteous, patient Ira! Why are you wailing? Are you crying, Ira? Your face is twisted, you are trying to steady yourself, to balance, sitting on me, to reach something. Let's go, Ira, let's roll away, but don't let go, cling to me with your nails, your claws, your legs and hands, till my blood spills down and mixes with your sweat._

 _Don't scream, don't moan so loudly, so that the evil spirits wouldn't hear you. You are wailing like a child, although nobody wants to hurt you, nobody will cause any harm to you. Dance, Ira, dance from your heart, because it might be the last time we dance together._

 _Breathe into my ear, breathe, so I could hear you scream. Fall on me, fall exhausted and lifeless, wait! Wait for a little, don't fall yet!_

 _Why here, Ira? Why here, between empty boxes and detonators, vires and acid-filled bottles? Why here, out of all the places I could have taken you? Why here, where you could feel the freshly spilt blood beneath your fingers? Out of all the places in the world, Ira, why? Tell me, Ira, is this dirt beneath our flaming bodies really cleaner than our whole lives, than the shadows, lurking in the corners, than our upcoming deaths and everything that will happen afterwards?_

 _Can you hear the moon whispering, Ira? Because I can hear you, murmuring into my ear, comforting my soul. Lay on me, Ira, rest for a moment. I will wait. We both will wait until the madness comes and takes us, no matter where - to the Heaven or Hell, until the satiated crows come to peck our eyes from their sockets, but it's not their time yet. Ira! Love only reaches its purpose, when ends with death, said the hangman and beheaded them._

 _Who will drown us, Ira, and who will save us? Can you hear me? Can you see me, bathing in dark blood, can you feel me with your own bruised skin, will you ride with me to the Hell, through aged, thousands-used road, to the Hell, whose red sky can be seen from afar? Why are you not saying anything, why are your chapped, red lips sealed, why are you too bathing in blood, Ira? Why are you keeping me in your deadly embrace, so I can't move a limb? Where does your strength come from, Ira, who told you that the liquid in those bottles is dangerous? What? Stupid, Ira! No, it makes me want to love you more, to hold you even tighter, to squeeze the life out of your body. What? Don't shout, Ira, I can not hear you. What? Or wait, do scream, shout with your lungs, Ira, fall once more onto me, claw deep holes into the floor, let's interlock as only wild animals can because we are wild animals, bloody and crazed._

 _Hit me, Ira, with all the inhuman strength that you possess, because I can't feel a thing anymore. Hurt me, Ira, just like only you can. Listen, Ira, could this one night really serve for the whole remaining life? Let me curse you this once, with my whole heart, let me hate you, Ira. Curse me too, if you want, hurt me with your tongue. Then, I will dress you up and throw into the river, where you will swim like the mad Ophelia, singing your own song. What will you sing? I would pull you out, and watch the red trail behind you, Ira, because it's the only footprint that you have ever left._

 _Well? Let's lay for a moment more, Ira. Let those evil spirits laugh at us, at our fate. Ira! Why aren't you saying anything, Ira, why are you not talking? Nothing else? Nothing? Open your mouth, Ira, I will pour the life's water in there. I will hold you in my arms, Ira, as long as you will be here, with me. Give me your hands. They are red, I will wash them, but they will never be white again._

 _Hush, Ira. Let's listen to the moon talking, whilst we keep travelling around the world._

 _Song of the chapter: Depeche Mode - World In My Eyes_


	20. Burn It Down

Clara enjoyed civilization and everything that came with it. It was surprising, because, if anyone, the commando always seemed at ease in the wild, surrounded by trees and water ponds, bushes and unkempt grass. Surrounded by predators, one of which she considered herself as well. But if the woman was asked, she would choose the comfort of a warm fireplace, soft couch and tea, drunk from a clean cup, together with a piece of chocolate. Just like a cat could learn to survive in the wild, Clara knew how to keep herself alive. And like the same feline, she would trade the harsh wind into the secured walls of a house.

Yet, the morning after metaphorically devouring the Joker, the morning after harassing him both mentally and physically, she found herself in his garden once more. Not searching for basil or thyme, but laying on the spiky, summer-dried grass. Staring at the sky and passing clouds.

Yesterday was not a goodbye. Definitely not, but it seemed that something clicked, changed, and could never be as it was. It _seemed_ like a goodbye, and the surgeon couldn't explain this strange feeling of an upcoming loss. Her intuitive, ancient side screamed 'run', whilst the logical, more developed, humane part reasoned to analyze and find a solution to the problem. Except, there was no problem.

Crack. Somewhere behind here, a tiny sound echoed, disturbing the silence. _Snap_.

"It is _fate_ , little assassin, for us to mee- _t_ in the Garden of Eden over and over _again_." Clara closed her eyes, a slow smile stretching her bruised, chapped and dry lips.

"You're the master of your fate, just as you're the captain of your soul, J." The man crouched next to her, balancing on his heels. As the woman opened her eyes, she took in his bare face, two asymmetrical scars on the sides of his mouth, only one visible from this angle, strong, sharp facial structure, and the abysses, two bottomless abysses staring into space. She noticed his eyebrows furrowing, concentration written all over his face.

"Why does it sound, uh, _familiar_?"

"Familiar?"

" _Mhhm_. _Master_ of your fate, _captain_ of your soul. Does it have something to do with the Flying Dutchman's captain?"

"So you remember the story of the ruthless Hendrick Van der Decken. I'm proud of you."

"I'm no- _t that_ old to have dementia, toots."

"I haven't said that. Furthermore, I doubt you're actually that much older than me, Joker, if any at all. Suspecting dementia in your case would indicate bad news to my own self."

" _Yeah_?"

"Hmm." Clara closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath as if preparing for something. And she was indeed, trying to remember once read lines. Those freezing orbs opened again, and the woman turned on her side, facing the Joker. _"Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole,"_ Theman's attention was on her now, his head turned towards the laying assassin. _"I thank whatever gods may be, for my unconquerable soul."_

"I'm, uh, not _sure_ where are ya _goin_ ' with thi _s-s-s_."

"Hush." Clara rose, positioning herself in Budha's pose, her long fingers spread widely on her knees. _"It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll,"_ A tiny pause followed the lines, giving some dramatism to the speech, but also taking in the man's reaction. _"I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul."_ Drumming silently on her muscular legs, Clara finished the poem with a dramatic drum-like sound, exposing white, straight teeth in a nothing-good-promising smile. "Remembered now?"

" _No_ , but it does ring a _bell_." The woman's face returned to its normal neutral expression, one eyebrow lifted, for Joker indicating her slight amusement.

"Invictus by William Ernest Henley, an English poem written in eighteen seventy-five. Only a few lines. You might have read it before when you broke into my library, therefore you were able to recognize the last two lines of it."

"Mus- _t be._ " Jack returned back to staring into the depths of trees. Clara noticed a small bird - a woodpecker - next to its thick trunk, looking for food probably. The creature kept Joker's attention focused on itself, and like a predator, he followed his slow, yet precise movements. " _Ira_."

"Hmm?" The woman turned to him, waiting for further words.

"We have, uh, _stuff_ to do today."

"What stuff?"

" _Stuffy_ stuff. We are, uh, _burning_ _down_ the Gotham General Hospital." He didn't see the surgeon's eyes widening, an almost pained expression making its way on her pale complexion, only for a moment. Next second, nobody could have guessed that Joker's statement affected the woman anyhow. Yet, the silence was enough for him to know her state, her reaction.

"Why?"

" _Dent_. Harvey Dent is in there. Not _lookin_ ' tha- _t good_ anymore. Grieving for his dead soon-to-be spouse. _Needin_ ' a little _push_." Clara didn't say anything, so the man continued. "Yesterday, before our, uh, _intimate interaction_ , I've burned a pile of money. Happened so tha- _t_ Mr Lau was on top. But before, he said, uh, _interesting_ things. Ya see, Dent is no- _t_ _happy_. There have been some _misunderstandings_ between him and _Commissioner_ Gordon. Turns out, Harvey- _boy_ has been telling truth all the time, and now Commissioner is _confused_. Has no _idea_ who to trus- _t_."

"The truth?"

" _Yeah_. The _truth_ that it was _you_ who did some _bad_ things. Under _my_ influence, of course. You see, your true identity was just a useful substitute for your _real_ crimes, which the boy kept pointing out. Gordon wanted to prove him _wrong_. Not anymore, toots." The man licked his lips, caressing the small scar on the lower one. "The boy _hates_ ya, and he hates _me_ , but _mostly_ , he's blaming _Commissioner_ for not listening, and therefore, in his eyes, Gordon is responsible for the girlie's death."

Ouch. Funny, how quickly things could turn around, and the hero becomes the enemy. "And where are you going with this?"

"It's _interesting_ , little assassin, how the human brain works. Dent is not blaming _you_ , because you were under _my_ influence, and he probably does not blame _me_ , because... Well, he just doesn't. The human ego is still in _there_ , _tempting_ and _encouraging_ his hatred for the one who doubted _him_ , the great Gotham's White Knight. The trouble was caused because nobody listened to _him_. Are ya following me, toots?"

"For now, yes. Still, why do you need to blow up the hospital?" The man turned his dark gaze towards her. The bird was absent.

"To send a message. An _-d_ a _symbol_. Y'know, fire _cleanses_."

"A symbol of cleanliness? Are you serious?" It had to be a symbol of chaos if anything. Not cleansing. Definitely not cleansing.

"I _am_." With disbelieving eyes, Clara watched the man stand up, extending his arm for the woman. She slowly took his warm hand, allowing to be lifted from the ground. They both stood at a similar height, Jack only a few inches taller. Two metaphorical giants, too tiny to actually make any sense in this enormous, absurd-laced world. " _Soon_ ya will understand. For now, just follow my lead. There are some, uh, _things_ that I will need you to do. I _really_ hope those creations of yours will work." He gave her a malicious grin, the one she was so familiar with, the same grin that she happened to almost enjoy seeing on the man's face.

Clara knew why Joker chose Harvey Dent as his target. She understood his psychology well. The man considered himself a victim, therefore he's prone to side with the one who provided him with the ability to seek revenge. Revenge for those who took his statement as an irrelevant piece of information, and not those who actually caused trouble. You don't get angry at a child for shattering an expensive vase, but rather get disappointed with those who failed to look after him. Herself and the Joker, they were two overgrown children, whilst James Gordon took the character of a supervisor. The supervisor was too arrogant to take the parent's warning into consideration, therefore he was responsible for the caused pain and misery. Simply as that. Basic psychology.

She must not forget to thank the Scarecrow for their therapy sessions. Over and over again they proved to be priceless.

The preparation was quick and precise. Mainly because there was almost nothing to do anymore. The bombs were packed, and Clara was responsible for putting them into specific places, which were marked on a relatively accurate map of the hospital's territory. At least accurate enough for the surgeon to recognize certain areas, as the Joker explained his plan while showing the points on the paper. She had to move quickly, otherwise, the man would blow her up together with her creations, which were connected to the detonator.

She watched him put on white clothes and apply the face paint with his bare fingers, not washing the hands afterwards. He never did, leaving the colours underneath his nails and in the creases of fingerprints. The woman recognized this unusual attire being an extra-large nurses' uniform, required to sneak inside without causing too much suspicion.

Her cold, calm eyes followed the man retrieving a wig, a bunch of orange hair, and putting it on. Steely gaze drifted down, amusement showing as she noted the dress ending in line with Joker's knees, exposing defined calves and his usual socks with colourful squares. The anarchist was easily recognizable, yet Clara was sure he will manage to go inside unnoticed, just like when he was dressed up as an honour guard. He was _that_ good in what he was doing. People become suspicious when you're hiding. They don't pay attention to things that are on full display.

Joker lived close to the centre of Gotham, meaning it was close to the Gotham General. It would have taken them less than twenty minutes to reach it on feet. Yet, they spent only five minutes while driving, the one behind the steering wheel being a madman and murmuring commands into the phone, not paying much attention to the road nor the cars in front of them.

During those five minutes, Clara's mind was racing. She tried to repeat the plan over and over again, making sure she memorized every single detail. Joker being the Joker, the woman was sure something will go _not_ according to the initial scheme, yet she found comfort in the knowledge that there, in fact, was a pattern to follow. In extreme-pressure situations, there could not exist a worse scenario than to start panicking because you don't know what to do. Planning before-hand ensured it won't happen.

"We are, uh, _here_." Clara snapped out of her hypnotical state, getting a grip of the reality once more. They were parked just outside the huge building.

Chaos. Patients and staff running around, the cops, so many cops, trying to evacuate every each of them. Everything is just as the Joker predicted. Apparently, he warned them about his great plans, only spreading mayhem and panic. Surrounded by it, it should have been easier to get to his target unnoticed. Silently observing the view, Clara caught a glimpse of the man looking at her through peripheral vision, and a slow smirk spread on her lips. He was judging her reaction. "Shall we go?"

"We _shall_." He handed her the car keys, _her_ keys, and, with one last examination of their surroundings, stepped outside. Clara waited just until she lost him in the crowd. Closing the door, the woman manoeuvered towards the staff entrance, at the same time putting on her white doctor's coat. Joker retrieved it together with his own attire, god knows where from. The man's guess was that, in the middle of the chaos, even if other staff members recognized her, it wouldn't ring a bell in their heads. After all, Clara used to work here, and under the pressure, people tend to skip details, focusing on things they know, seeking familiarity and comfort. They knew her being a doctor, and they would concentrate on the fact she was one of them.

The bag underneath her coat was heavy, yet small and nearly impossible to see. Her handcrafts were well-made, unlike the typical homemade explosives that were rather cumbersome, it was easily portable. A wide range of knowledge was required, and also the familiarity with certain ingredients, to create something equally powerful and effective as the real thing.

It was not hard to reach the first destination undisturbed, and neither was the second one. They were underneath the main areas, therefore secluded from panicking people, who tried to escape the building, instead of wandering inside of it. The Joker obviously had a great understanding of structural destroying, she had to give him credit for that. If you place explosives randomly, the required result of making the whole building collapse will not be reached. Just like making efficient bombs required years of education in chemistry, the case with destroying something with the least effort demanded equal knowledge in physics and architecture, also imaginative and analytical thinking. Did Joker have those traits? Clara believed he did, he proved that indeed. Not that she was an expert in exploding things, but the placements of bombs seemed logical and reliable.

Third and fourth had to be located near the receptionist's table, in the main area. For the surgeon, who was used to seeing people, patients and staff, constantly moving in there, the newly abandoned hall seemed unnatural and foreign. That should have been expected, yet it still confused the woman for a minuscule second. It was not easy to let go of her past, of the environment that accepted Clara and took advantage of her brilliant skills, also providing her with the imaginary safety and a feeling of belonging somewhere. Yet, the woman understood she was not needed anymore, not here, not now. Although it wasn't her own mentality to destroy what didn't need _her_ , she knew that the man, who she sided with at the moment, craved the chaos that destruction provided.

Observing her own trail of thought from a mental distance, Clara found irony in them. The irony, and a slight astonishment. From a young age, she was used to the constant change and learned how to adapt. To survive. Yet, the woman was a creature of habit, and letting go was always something of great discomfort. One would think that throughout the years, it would be suppressed, nearly forgotten, not given much attention to. Funny thing, the feeling has never disappeared. Just like then, now, Clara stood in an empty room, taking in the walls that voicelessly screamed of the months spent within them.

With a final, heavy sigh, she bent at the waist and gently placed one more bomb underneath the desk. If she had to let go, it will happen with a bang. Casting a curious look towards the receptionist's computer, which was left awake and unprotected, she quickly checked the device. Data about every patient was in there, Harvey Dent's room number, too. The Joker had to be where the White Knight was. "Half of the face burned, huh? A two-faced man. Nothing new." Amused, she finally moved forwards, to the final four areas.

The explosives were where they had to be - one outside the hospital, two in the left wing and also two in the right wing. With the bag empty and weightless, the woman decided to check upon the clown. Time continued going on, but still, quite a few minutes till the great explosion were left. Because she knew Gotham General well, Clara had no trouble reaching the required areas. Her work was fast, as productive as it could possibly be, leaving her with nothing else to do.

Jack was not as successful with time managing as she was. Clara caught sight of the man just as he got into one of the rooms. Before she could follow him, a cop passed Clara in a rush, not giving her a second glimpse. "Doctor, you'd better get moving, the building is collapsing any moment." The surgeon slowed down, thanking whatever gods for his lack of interest in her, and with troubled eyes watched the man get behind the same door that the Joker passed. Only muffled words reached Clara. "Ma'am, we're going to have to move him, now. Ma'am?" Quiet, wind-like sound from a silenced pistol failed to reach the assassin's ears and deliver the message. But the silence that stood afterwards spoke volumes on its own.

The woman crept closer and closer, reaching the opened door, peeking inside. Joker, with his back turned to her, had lost his wig, and at the current moment was ruffling his green, tangled hair. But Clara's gaze didn't stay on him for long. Her attention was focused on the man in the bed, who's one-half of the face was damaged beyond recognition. Macabre-looking wounds, one big, bloody hole where the skin was just a day ago, exposed flesh turning black and infected-looking. With the eyes of a doctor, Clara knew Dent needed professional supervision twenty-four/seven, otherwise, serious consequences might occur.

The woman leaned on the doorpost, not taking her eyes off of the wounded man. It's incredible he was still alive, she mused. Harvey's eye was barely holding its position in the socket, and the woman doubted he could actually see much with it. Didn't seem he was aware of his own wounds that much, as the man twisted and squirmed in the bed, trying to reach the Joker. The clown was talking, enraging him even further. With detached interest, Clara listened to their conversation, at the same time keeping an eye on what was happening outside the room.

"I _don't_ want there to be any hard feelings between _us_ , Harvey." Jack leaned backwards, making himself comfortable. Neither one of the men noticed the tall creature in the background, a mirthless twist of the mouth disfiguring her features. "When you and, uh..."

"RACHEL!" Dent interrupted the clown, a furious growl escaping his mouth. Joker gesticulated with his hand and continued as if nothing had happened.

"You and _Rachel_ were being abducted, _I_ was sitting in Gordon's _cage_. _I_ didn't rig those charges..."

"Your men. Your plan. The _surgeon_." The clown twisted his head a tiny bit, analyzing his statements. His accusations.

"Do I _really_ look like a guy with a _plan_?" Joker took a steady breath as if sniffing something in the air. "You know what I am? I am a _dog_ chasing _cars_. I wouldn't know what to do with one if I caught it. Y'know, I jus- _t do_ things." The man's artistic gesticulations gave additional effect, and, although not seeing his face, Clara knew him licking his lip. He always did that after a somewhat important statement. "The mob has plan _s-s-s_.. The cops have plans. Gordon's got plans. Y'know," His head moved to the side subtly, with Dent following his lead, and suddenly, Clara found herself staring into two black abysses. " _She_ has plans. They're _schemers_." Joker dedicated his attention back to the man in the bad, who was listening to his velvety voice hypnotized. " _Schemers_ tryin' to control their _little_ worlds. I am not a schemer. I try to show the schemers how _pathetic_ their attempts to control things really are. So, when I say," Jack moved forwards, gripping Dent's hand in his own. "When I say that _you_ and your _girlfriend_ was nothing personal, you know _I'm_ telling the truth."

A master of manipulations. The surgeon's jaw was locked tightly, to the point of, if put a little more pressure, the bone would break. Clara knew people outside were shouting and creating as much noise as only a panicking crowd could make, but for her, the world was silent. The woman's focus was on the anarchist, the chaotic, crazy madman in front, who decided to prove his point with actions, not just words.

The Joker released Harvey's restraints, talking whilst doing it. "It's the _schemers_ that put you where you _are_. You _were_ a schemer. You _had_ plans. And... Look where it got you." Clara reacted the same moment as Dent half-jumped from the bed, reaching for Joker's throat. Except, her interference was not needed. The clown managed to control the wounded man with ease. He took a hold of the Two-Face arms, continuously talking. "I just did what _I_ do bes- _t_. I took your little _plan_ , and I _turned_ it on _itself_. _Look_ what I did to this city with a few drums of _gas_ and a few _bullets_. Hmm? _Y'know_ what I've noticed? _Nobody_ panics when things go _according_ to _plan_. Even when the plan is _horrifying_. If tomorrow I tell the press that a gangbanger will get _shot_ , or a truckload of soldiers will be _blown_ _up_ , nobody panics. Because it's _all_ part of a _plan_. But when _I_ say that one _little_ old mayor will die, _everybody_ loses their _minds_!" _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ The idiot continued taunting the sleeping lion. Clara felt terror building up, as she noticed Joker taking a pistol out of a pocket, and handing it to the laying man. " _Introduce_ a little _anarchy_. _Upset_ the established _order_ , and _everything_ becomes _chaos_." Jack lowered his head, placing the gun against his forehead and closing his eyes momentarily. As they opened once more, there was not a drop of uneasiness in them, his stance calm and collected. "I am an agent of chao _s-s-s._ And _y'know_ the thing about chaos? It's _fair_."

Breathing. Slow, steady breathing was heard coming from the Joker, and Clara had to remind herself to breathe, too. The woman's body was rigid, she was standing in the middle of the room without the ability to move, to do anything. Now, everything depended on the fallen White Knight. Harvey took a coin and showed one side of it to the clown. From a distance, Clara couldn't make the image engraved on it.

If she was immobile before, the assassin completely froze now, when Dent's words reached her. "You live." He turned the coin, and Clara saw the other side of the metal thing being burned and blackened. "You die." Blue met completely grey as he turned the mutilated face towards her. "And _she_ will go together." The coin was being tossed upwards and landed on Harvey's palm. Clara couldn't see which side landed. She was waiting for an echo of the gun firing and prepared herself for the upcoming view of Jack's head exploding.

Nothing came. With a hateful look, Two-Face lowered the gun. The fate was merciful, deciding to save the tainted from their Last Court, at least for now.

Without another word, Joker turned around, moving towards the exit, making eye contact with the woman on his way. Their job was done. Before following him, she cast one last look to the man in the bed, who was already looking at her. A mere second passed, voiceless messages passing between them. A statement, a promise had yet to be said out loud. And it was, immediately.

"I won't forget." With a long, somewhat keen look, Clara nodded once.

"And you shouldn't." She finally turned, passing the door and following the clown's steps. The surgeon trailed behind, not trying to keep up with his long strides, but somehow, their paces equalized. She found herself going shoulder-to-shoulder with the Joker, neither of them saying anything. They both knew what was happening in each other's heads, words weren't needed to express anything. She was the schemer, trying to collect, to rationalize the chaos within her mind, whilst he _was_ Chaos, embracing, enjoying the disorder.

Their ways didn't part until passing the final exit. Jack took the detonator from his seemingly bottomless pocket and with one final, somewhat longing look cast towards the tall woman, turned to the last bus remaining. Clara, on the other hand, had to reach her car and drive away on her own. But before she could make her way towards it, the Joker interrupted the silence. "I, uh, _wouldn't_ have been killed, even if the coin had fallen the _black_ side u- _p_." Surprise probably shone clearly on the assassin's face, an unspoken question hanging in the air. After a gentle caressing of the scar, a slow grin tore through the man's lips. " _Couldn't_ , uh, let ya _depart_ to Hell once more, _could_ I?" The analogy of her previous journeys and adventures overseas stood proudly between them, and a silent vow not to let that happen again struck something inside Clara. Something that had been touched only a few times before, and something that was used to the cold, unbreakable cage that surrounded it.

Before she herself could say anything, the Joker brought the detonator up, moving it from side to side. "Time _flies_ , toots. Ten second _s-s-s_."

Unexpectedly, an amused smirk elongated the surgeon's lips. A strong, powerful body that was designed to survive turned around, sprinting towards the black Mustang in the corner of the parking lot. The second she took off, a loud bang echoed inside the Gotham General Hospital. In the rear-view mirror, the woman could make out individual parts of the building collapsing, a complete hell erupting.

An unexpected feeling of peace came, enveloping Clara in its embrace. A feeling of peace that the woman longed for her whole life. Something changed inside her, twisting and transforming, forming new, unpredictable pieces of personality. The old burned down together with the dying construction.

Suddenly, she saw a glimpse of a black, somewhat familiar sleek car speeding towards her. The last thing that the assassin felt was a vibration, before pain tore through her left side, completely drowning the sane part of her brain in burning furry and desperate craze.

 _Song of the chapter: Black Sabbath - Falling Off The Edge Of The World_


	21. She

**PART TWO**

 **BEYOND THE TIME**

 _It matters not how strait the gate,_

 _How charged with punishments the stroll,_

 _I am the master of my fate:_

 _I am the captain of my soul._

 _Invictus, 1875_

 _William Ernest Henley_

When Joker pushed the button, he expected the explosion to be... A little more... Dramatic. With narrowed eyes, the clown turned around, staring at the half-happened act of destruction. That's it? Or could the bombs possibly be... _Incomplete_? Could they be low-quality? Badly constructed? _Huh_? He pressed the button a few more times. It had to be something wrong with the detonator, right? It _had_ to be.

And it was. A few moments later, a larger, and then a huge explosion followed, startling the man in the most pleasurable way. Grinning, he turned around, getting into the waiting bus and taking the back seat. The assassin didn't disappoint Joker, presenting high-quality devices that could be trusted. With such an attitude of that strange woman, he wouldn't be surprised if she indeed would have somehow damaged the bombs on purpose, just to hinder his plan. That's what you get when working with the best people. They can't be fully trusted. Never. Give them the benefit of the doubt, but don't fully expose yourself.

Still, the explosion happened. Dent was put under Joker's little finger. The seeds of revenge found their places within the fertile soil of his mind. It was all that was needed for the metaphorical plant of chaos to grow and thrive.

Without anything else to do, the man stared through the front window, seeing the back of another vehicle. No one muttered a word, sitting quietly and rigid. Perhaps the act that they had just participated in, or maybe the clown himself sewed their mouths shut. Joker didn't complain. The silence was better than pointless babbling to fill in the void. It continued for fifteen minutes, according to the clock above the driver's head, and just as his impatience started to bloom, the stolen bus pulled out from the line of other similar buses, heading down another street. As if reading his mind, the driver chose this specific moment to change their direction, undisturbed.

Joker took an honest liking into using buses as a way to travel around. The yellow-coloured mean of transport was way too convenient to be ignored. Although slow and hard-to-manoeuvre, it didn't cause others to stare, easily blended together with the flow, was useful in general. Tons of space.

The woman could have fitted inside, too. Yet, he knew she would have prefered her car being saved from destroying and also not confiscated by the cops, therefore he gave Ira the keys, so she could drive to his house herself. Always herself. After all, if you need something, gotta do it yourself.

"Pull over." His nasal voice tore through the frozen atmosphere, loud enough to reach the driver. These days, it was hard to find anyone from the asylum who could control a vehicle without drawing too much attention. _Unrequired_ attention. Attention was good, but not the one that came when unprepared. Those who could drive at least reasonably were appreciated and valued.

 _She_ could drive. Obviously. And drive _well_. Ira herself told him about this huge van that she used to manoeuvre with through the empty deserts. He sat next to her during their short trip around Gotham. Joker can keep her as an excuse to have an interminable driver. How _good_ could that be? He wouldn't need to sit behind the steering wheel ever again, nor would he need to search for a different driver every day.

"Boss?" Joker's eyes snapped open, taking in the waiting faces of his men. They had stopped moving a while ago, staying on the side of the street next to his house, waiting for acknowledgement from the clown. Involuntary, Jack's mind kept drifting towards Ira and her potential placement in the _scheme_. The big picture. And it distracted him way too much. Not good.

With his usual grace and ease, the clown hopped out of the bus. Before it drove away, he turned around, looking at the lanky boy behind the steering wheel. "Two day _s-s-s_." The boy nodded, fear and respect projected on his thin face. Just as Jack turned, the door closed, and the yellow bus drove away, leaving the lonely, hunched figure behind.

Things rarely were as they seemed to be. The boy was hardly a boy. A victim of obsessive-compulsive disorder, whose psychological problems turned into obsessiveness over getting the 'ideal' body, resulting in the young man stop eating, shrinking, and finally disappearing into the wall of bones and skin. Completely useless in combats, but pretty smart. A good _driver_.

The clown didn't move for a good few minutes, not minding that people living nearby could see the anarchist fifty meters from their houses. They wouldn't. Too busy following the news, glued to the screens of TV. _Something_ was wrong. Joker kept checking his surroundings, searching for a black Mustang that _had_ to be parked somewhere near. For sure, the car that Ira drove was much faster than the bus, therefore she had to be here way before him. Had the assassin parked further down the street, to not draw any attention? Is she inside, waiting for him?

The door was locked. Tooting silently, Jack fished out his keys from the bottomless pocket of a nurse's dress, unlocking the door of his house, and trying to smell the woman's perfume. Was it perfume at all? Or did she cook so much, that finally overtook the aroma of spices, of clove and cinnamon, and that weird-looking green pod, how did she call it? _Cardamom_. Ira called it cardamom. That one day at her own kitchen, gently holding it between her index finger and thumb. She said that if you open the pod, there are seeds inside. Seeds, which for Joker looked like one tiny, black worm, eating its way inside the closed pod. She laughed at his insight, throwing the cardamom into a pot of stew. Now we will eat worms, J.

Jack caught a light gust of clove. It was old, lacking any freshness. His house smelled like a fucking spice store. Yet, the source was nowhere in sight. Did Ira run away? Is she gone? Was her loyalty equal to the one of a hungry dog? The assassin didn't know what loyalty means, Joker reminded himself. She did, another side argued. Where the _hell_ was Ira?

The empty house didn't speak to him, mourning the disappearance of the woman. When she was here, the building _chose_ not to speak, to not disturb the ancient creature within its walls. Now, it _couldn't_ speak anymore. It lost the ability.

Joker caressed the tiny scar on his lower lip with his sensitive tongue, only feeling another set of chapped, yet soft and warm lips on the same place tasting his skin, the paint on it. She said it had a taste of clay. Clay? Why did it taste of _dirt_? Maybe because he bought the organic kind of paint, made of clay, she mused. The one that is kinda healthy for your skin?

The man stepped further inside, making his way to the living room, and lowered himself on the couch, the same one that Ira took a liking to lay on. She wouldn't run away, would she? The assassin didn't have enough cowardice to actually do such a thing. If she did decide to free herself from the Joker, Ira would find a way to completely eliminate him first, before departing. The past comes back to bite, she knew that just too well, didn't she?

The surgeon consumed a large part of his mind, Jack noticed. Even now, he was thinking about her, instead of worrying for the upcoming days, hours, even. Maybe she's gone for good? She is not gone, he reminded himself. Just temporarily absent. The woman will return, because it's what supposed to happen, right? He was not pleased with the sudden sentiment that rooted inside his head. It was dangerous to keep someone so close to his insides, to his _guts_ , especially someone as twisted and dark as the strange woman.

Sometimes, when Ira thought he was deep within his own mind, Jack was actually examining the momentarily guardless creature. And what a creature from the antiquity was sitting next to or in front of him, enjoying the faulty thoughts of fooling everybody around! Did she herself realize keeping alive and carrying a zombie of the ancient tales, the one that saw the Troyans at their greatest and the worst times? Did Ira realize she did not belong here? Did she know she lived a borrowed time? Was she aware of her nonconformity?

She was. Ira always knew, and she also knew that Jack understood her dilemma of mismatched centuries, too. The woman was too cruel to be a part of this society, and she was way too gentle to live among nowadays people. Her sense of righteous called too loudly, silencing the voice of sanity, and the whispers of war hypnotized her soul, numbing the longing for peace.

Joker stood up, stretching his long body. If Ira is not here, he will have to make something to eat himself. Something bland and tasteless, nothing similar to the assassin's cookery. If she put a rainbow on the plate and made him feel like the taste Odyssey, he will do exactly the opposite. An act of protest. Disallowance the woman to occupy his head even further, because doing something that she used to do in the exact same manner meant sympathising with the creature, or even worse, starting to become it. Analyzing one's actions deeply not only gives you a perfect insight into his character but also forces you to pick his habits and apply them to yourself. Completely unintentionally the majority of times.

Yet, Jack knew his attempts went straight into the void the moment he took five or six ingredients too much from his overcrowded fridge. More like ten, if spices and herbs were included. He had no idea at what temperature halibut had to be poached, or for how long the winter squash should remain in the oven. And it didn't matter that much, because food was food, no matter how professionally or amateurly prepared. Except that healthy food costs a ridiculous amount of money. Not that Joker _cared_ about money.

The fish was flat and unusually-looking, the type that Joker hadn't butchered ever before, but he saw Ira filleting the same fish once, praising the gentle flavour and beautiful texture. Putting the knife in the middle, feeling for its spine, sliding slowly. Letting the knife do the whole work. Trust your utensils, that's _what_ he knew. The water was boiling, so he lowered the temperature to a gentle simmer. Fish is delicate, she said. Treat it with care, if you want your meal to be delicious. Invest time and effort to get the best taste and quality. A few strange sprigs went into the water, together with salt and a bay leave. Immediately, the aroma enveloped the concentrated man, relaxing his posture, which was stiff from the unfamiliar movements. Carefully, he lowered pieces of halibut in the water. _See you soon, corpse._

The squash had to be chopped into cubes, and put inside the oven to roast, to caramelize. Joker enjoyed this particular process a little more. Unlike the delicate fish, winter squash was way more stable. It could endure a lack of gentleness. He tossed the cubes in the bowl together with some olive oil and _cinnamon_ , and salt, missing a few pieces and cursing lowly when he had to bend down to retrieve the escapees. Finally, the man spread the cubes on a baking sheet and put it into the oven.

He didn't hate the process. It was just much more enjoyable to sit on a chair and simply watch the woman do all the work. Who could have thought that cooking food was way harder than it looked? Ordering a take-out and asking to place it on his doorsteps seemed alluring when compared to cooking yourself, but the repulsive thought of somebody's body fluids inside the sauce failed to leave Joker's mind. He presumed Ira might have just lied to him, teased Jack like she always did, yet, the man took her words deep. He didn't by any chance want to give some old fucker a blow job.

The sound of timer went off, startling Jack from staring out the window. The darkness started to set in, drowning the street in a soft blanket. His food was prepared, and not waiting any more, the man plated a little more than half of it, putting the remainings on another plate. If Ira happened to come back, he knew she would be ravenous. The woman fasted for the majority of the day, claiming it helped with her mental abilities. Joker wasn't sure about her statement's truthfulness. Still, he didn't interfere with Ira's strange rituals, as long as the woman stayed at healthy body weight.

Here he caught himself once again pondering about the commando, remembering those long, powerful legs wrapped around his torso, her crushing embrace and bruising grip. She was bloody strong, toughened by the morning gym routines. Joker had no doubts she could break his bones if wanted, and choke the hell out of him if a chance like this occurred at the right moment. If the crazed woman was in the mood to recall her adventurous past. The truth was, Jack knew very well he was toying with a lion sometimes. A lioness who pretended to be a tamed cat. A creature who...

 _Fuck!_

"Get _out_ of my _mind_!" With a loud groan, the Joker tossed his untouched plate straight into the wall, breaking it into thousands of tiny pieces, food splattering all over the place, painting an artistic mosaic of green, orange and white. Furious, he stomped towards the door but changed his route immediately after reaching it. He didn't change out of his nurse's outfit, and if someone happened to go by the house, it would cost him his place. Instead, Jack started pacing the length of his living room, throwing the coffee table out of his way, pushing the couch to the corner. His usually neat house resembled a post-fight environment with broken things lying around.

The walking helped Jack cool down. With a calmer expression, the man finally sad down of the displaced couch, straightening his back and staring into the black screen of the TV. He was breathing deeply, relaxing slowly, licking his lips and the sides of scars. Joker got angry at Ira. Because she was not here. Because he knew what the surgeon would say. Analyze the reasoning behind your anger, she might advise. Because he kept worrying where Ira has disappeared.

The remote control on the ground caught his attention. Apparently, it was placed on the coffee table, and when Joker threw it, the device fell down. Bending slightly, the man retrieved it from the ground, pressing the red button. A light flashed, lightening the dimmed room. The news has been reported, a woman in a pantsuit was talking into the camera. Her serious tone blended together with the background noises, creating a chaotic cacophony. Joker narrowed his eyes into tiny slits, staring at something behind the reporter. He felt his pulse quicken, blood pounding following his heart's rhythm in the man's temples. _'Mr Wayne states he recognized the car and did the first thing that came to his mind in an attempt to stop the criminal from escaping. The suspect has been transported to the police station, from where the final decision will come. A police psychoanalytic was keen to share his thoughts on the suspect's behaviour, indicating a possible mental disorder, leading her to such actions. Further information is required.'_

Silence. Complete and utter silence followed as Jack stared into the remaining bits of a familiar black car, masses of people running around, cheering at the man who sat on a portable chair, talking with Gordon. The camera occasionally flashed at the surroundings, catching bits of all the policemen surrounding the familiar area.

So Ira didn't run away, after all. She was caught. Dragged from a crushed car, no medics around to treat her possible wounds, restrained and transported to the same hole that she despised so deeply. Where she was exposed. Vulnerable. Lonely.

With his jaw locked tightly, he stared at the screen, not really seeing it. He will do just fine without the surgeon. He managed to do it before, he will do it now. A plan started forming inside his sharp mind. Joker's face distorted into a macabre expression, hate and madness projecting on the paint-covered features. Mental disorder, _huh_? He will give them a _real_ mental disorder. A disorder that will involve _everybody_. Something that _they_ will have no choice but execute, to prove the world how little sanity really meant when faced with real danger. When chaos breathed down their necks.

Two days. In two days, he will show them how little morality was left in those rotten people. Murmuring underneath his breath, Joker stood up, manoeuvering towards the stairs and climbing up. Now, he will rest. Tomorrow, he will work. He knew what had to be done. Skipping the shower, he got rid of the tainted uniform, throwing it on the floor, just like _she_ hated him doing. The control freak praised the order. Clothes that were hung according to their colours. _Fuck_ her, and _fuck_ everything that resembled her.

With an angry readjust of the pillow, Jack finally relaxed underneath the cold sheets, turning to his side, ignoring the empty space that used to be occupied by another warm body. Like a ghost, he felt Ira in the room. The pillow smelled like her, haunting Joker's twisted soul. Dark shadows completely covered the bedroom, hiding everything from the man's gaze, leaving only the metaphorical vision of imagination, vivid and bright.

 _He dreamed of ghosts and war. Of empty villages and screaming children. He saw his friend standing beside, deep eyes staring into the horizon. Freshly sewed wounds that separated his cheeks from jaw started bleeding once more. It happened often, with every laugh of his. Jack was a good humorist and managed to cheer the man up, with the cost of the Glasgow smile opening up, never healing completely. His friend didn't mind. He joked he looked cooler with them anyway. He told that this way he will never forget the creature that did this to him and everything that she represented. The cost of lust. The price of distraction._

 _Song of the chapter: Black Sabbath - Shadow of the Wind_


	22. Lie To Me

_Silence._

 _White, hot pain. And then..._ _Silence once more._

A pale woman lying in bed opened her storm-coloured, bloodshot eyes and snapped them back closed when the harsh light hit them. With a strangled grunt, she slowly peered them, taking in the world around her through narrow slits. White, white everywhere. There was nothing to contrast against the brightness, nothing to hook her attention onto. And the smell. The odour, strangely familiar, bringing the memories crashing back. The lingering smell of medical drugs and antibacterial substances.

Instinctually, Clara tried to lift herself up and find a cover, somewhere to hide, to escape. But as soon as she tried to yank her limbs, tearing pain, equal to the agony of a lost body part, pierced the woman's body. She remembered feeling something close only when the blood-thirsty men came after her, cutting out her uterus and leaving her younger self to bleed out. The woman fell back onto the mattress, Clara's back arching away from the flat surface, and a suppressed, throaty wail escaped her dry, chapped lips. Breath. Slow breaths. The assassin had to remind herself to breathe.

Her eyes were closed as she took gulps of oxygen-filled air through her mouth, to not smell the odour of drugs. Tormentingly slowly, the pain subsided, and yet, the woman was terrified of the thought of moving an inch. Her hazed brain managed to draw the correlation between movement and scorchingly burning sensation in her left side.

Finally, Clara's pulse calmed down. She could think clearly now, the thick mist in her head clearing away. Something went horribly wrong, resulting in her being brought to this isolated room. Based on the smell, it had to be some kind of hospital, but it didn't make any sense, because the only hospital in Gotham was destroyed.

Her eyes snapped open. The car accident. She could recall being in a car accident, and then her world went black. But before that, Clara knew she was furious. She would have murdered the other driver, who _dared_ mess up her masterplan. Was it truly just an accident? Or was it a planned attack, specifically targeting her freedom? The assassin was not sure, but her gut feeling kept telling her it had not been a coincidence. It was a trap.

And then the pain. Something was not right with her left side, the one which met the wild force of another car smashing into her Mustang. Reluctantly, with the speed of a snail, Clara diverted her steely gaze to the wounded side and froze.

Throughout her life, Ira had experienced severe wounds. Her body told the whole history of them. White scars, long and deep, small and circular, shining silver and ugly pink, they all were endured with the patience of a seasoned warrior. Yet, excluding the lost reproductive organ, the assassin had not had any wounds that were beyond just 'serious'. The fortune favoured her often, and she managed to come back from war with her limbs intact, with no unhealable damage.

Clara's arm, her beautiful, art-covered arm, her strong, powerful limb with muscular development suited to wield a weapon and choke an enemy, her arm was not here. A part of her body was missing.

The woman choked on her own spit, her eyes widening in pure terror. Clara had never felt such horror overtaking her body ever in her long three decades of living. Not when she killed her own blood and flesh. The anger fueled her actions. Not when her uterus was ripped out of her torso. Survival instinct made her not give up and move forward. Not when she departed to Israel. Determination burned deep inside. Not when James was torn out of her hands. The pain of her own soul blinded the assassin. Not even all those times acknowledging the death of others did make Clara as much as flinch. She got used to it. Unfortunately, the naive part of her believed that fortune would keep smiling upon her. The Betrayer chose not to. She was not prepared for _this_.

It is a strange thing how one single thing going wrong could flip over one's whole life. One. SIngle. Thing. Suddenly, you're left staring at the ashes of your previous life, left with nothing but empty sheets of paper, which used to be your existence's history. Pages that either has to be rewritten or destroyed completely.

An inhuman shriek echoed in the white room, reflecting off the walls and intensifying multiple times. Clara did not recognize nor even see people in white coats running inside, her crazed eyes kept searching only for the invisible arm, trying to feel, to move the phantom limb. The moment she felt a gentle touch, a shake on her unwounded shoulder, the woman jerked backwards, trying to escape the sensation. She moved around, avoiding multiple sets of gloved hands, all the time screaming. Her throat hurt from the unusually high sounds, voice chords unused to the heightened pitch.

As abruptly as it started, Clara's shouting disappeared, reducing to occasional moan and groan, until finally, her eyelids dropped, too heavy to keep them opened. An elderly, grey-haired nurse with keen, soft eyes injected her a syringe of clear liquid, taming the demons within the assassin's mind. But the darkness that came was not as quiet as one would expect. No, it was filled with figures and colours that one couldn't escape. Like a dream from which you can't wake up.

Clara felt herself being pulled towards her past experiences, the ones that she craved running away from. Suddenly, she felt the same old grief all over again, reading a letter that James had asked her to give his mother before the final and fatal departure. ' _Usually, when I write a letter_ ,' it said, ' _it is very much overdue and I make every effort to give it away quickly. This letter, however, is different. It is a letter that I hoped you would never receive, as it is a verification of that black-edged card that you received a while ago, and which has caused you so much grief. It is because of that grief that I wrote this letter, and by the time you have finished it, I hope it has done something good, and I have not written it in vain._ ' Her heart broke once more just like it did at that moment, and the present Clara, a tiny part hiding within her old brain, shouted her memory self to stop reading, to withhold this agony. ' _It is very difficult to write now future things in the past tense, so I return to the present. Tomorrow we're going into action. As yet, we do not know exactly what our job will be, but I have no doubt it will be a dangerous one, during which many lives will be lost, mine could be one of them. Well, mom, I'm not afraid to die. I like this life, yes. For the past two years, I've planned and dreamed and laid out a perfect future for myself. I'd like that future to materialize, but it is not what I will, but what God wills. And if by sacrificing all this I leave world slightly better than I found it, I'm perfectly willing to make that sacrifice. Don't get me wrong, mom. I'm no flag-waving patriot, nor had I ever professed to be. America's a great country, the best that there is. But I can't honestly and sincerely say that is it worth fighting for it. Nor can I imagine myself fighting for the liberation of Europe. It's a nice thought, but I don't want to fool myself. No, mom. My world is centred around you, and my dad. My friends, too. You're worth fighting for. If my sacrifice includes the well-being of you, it is worth fighting for. Now, I've already stated I'm not afraid to die and am perfectly willing to do so if you will be benefiting in any way. If you do not, then my sacrifice is all in vain. Have you benefited, mom? Or have you cried and worried yourself sick? I fear it is the later. Don't you see, mom, it will do me no good? In addition, it will undo all the good work I've been trying to do. Grief is useless. It does neither you nor me any good. I want no epitaph and tears. All I want is for you to remember me, feel proud of me. Then shall I rest in peace, knowing that I've done a good job. Death is nothing final or lasting. It is just a stage in everyone's life. To some, it comes early, to some late, but it will come in no time._ ' Something old and malicious overpowered Clara's numb body. Sweat ran down along her eyebrow, seeping out of her pores, eyes moving underneath the lids.

The view changed. Her younger self, a few weeks prior, sat on a chair next to a small, antique-looking desk, crafted from dark, one-layered wood. An opened bar of chocolate laid on top and Clara's fingers absentmindedly kept pushing around the broken pieces. Her lips moved, and for a deaf, it would seem that she's eating, swallowing the sweet. Wrong.

Clara was speaking to a man, who loomed in the shadows behind her. The woman's husky, chesty voice, mostly suitable for bed whispers and shouts in the war field, was audible enough only for him to hear, too low to cross the border of thin walls. "When I was made responsible for the commandment of our army, I said that the mandate was to destroy the enemy of the innocent Israeli civilians, and therefore, America's enemy. And then it would be done, as soon as we're ready. We're ready _now_. The battle which is about to begin will be one of the most decisive battles in the history of our departure. It will be a turning point. The eyes of the whole world will be on us. Watching anxiously which way the battle will swing. We can give them their answer at once. It will swing our way. We have first-class equipment. Good tanks. Good anti-tank guns. Plenty of artillery and plenty of ammunition. And we're backed up by the finest striking forces in this area." The woman's silvery eyes glistened in the dim light, long, bony fingers attached to a veiny hand twitching slightly just like a dying spider would twitch. "Each one of us, every officer and man should enter this battle with a determination to see it through. To fight and kill. And finally, to win. If we all do this, there can be only one result. Together, we will destroy the enemy. The sooner we win this battle, the sooner we shall all get back home to our families."

"And yet, I can hear the doubt in your voice." His velvety tone, coloured with a gentle, barely noticeable accent, forced the commando to finally face him. They held eye contact for a painfully extended moment, communicating without a sound, without a whisper muttered, and yet, the depth of their connection could be seen with a bare eye. James knew what his friend refused to acknowledge. The gut feeling of something bad upcoming. He knew because the man felt it too.

When Clara finally spoke, her voice was harsh and cold, matching the freezing look in her grey orbs. "I can not allow the doubt to influence my decision. Logic does not match my emotions, but one shall not trust his heart when the brain is telling him to act. And I refuse to be the one who acts on his feelings." The finality of the woman's words told everything that James wanted to know. He lowered his head, staring at the dirty flood, and backed towards the closed door. One last glance, memorizing the rigid form of his companion, was the last thing before he turned around.

Low moans tore through Clara's lips, and the woman forced her eyes open for the second time in a few hours. The view hadn't changed, the same white ceiling stared down at her, indifferent, apathetic.

She had a visitor. A greying nurse, who sat on a chair next to her bed. An elderly woman, whose keen eyes stared at Clara, warmth and empathy shining in a form of a glistening layer. When she noticed the pale woman gaining her consciousness back, she moved a little closer, her gaze becoming more attentive. "Welcome back, Doctor Moore."

"Hardly." The voice of a grave tore out of Clara's throat, the evident results of her shouts and screams. Her mouth was dry and rubbery, tongue sticking to the base of the upper jaw. The burning heat that was lacing Clara's left side had nearly disappeared, bare hints of it occasionally reminding of themselves. She dared not to as much as glimpse that way, too terrified of losing control again. The nurse caught her drifting gaze and the warmth within her eyes clouded them once more

"They had to do this, Clara." The assassin's jaw tightened, steely eyes suddenly cooling to the freezing point, and a strange, nondescribable expression made its way on her angular face. "The bone was fractured in more than ten places, shards pierced and buried inside the muscles. Hundreds of them. If they tried to take out every each of them, they would risk to not being able to save your life."

"Which, minding my current situation, wouldn't be half as bad." The nurse shook her head.

"It's your emotions speaking, Clara. Not your rational side. A lost limb does not mean that your life will lack in any way. As for your situation, it's not decisive yet." She maintained eye contact with the surgeon, refusing to succumb underneath her heavy gaze. "I don't know what you have done, and neither do I care. In my eyes, as well as many others', you have the name of a reputable surgeon, who managed to save hundreds of lives in a short period of time. Who practised and forged her skills in the eye of the war. We didn't see a delusional madwoman. We saw a professional doctor. Trust me, our voice is loud."

"Oh yeah? Guess what. After my last expedition to the Gotham General, I doubt the cops would be interested in _your_ voice. How would they call me? A doctor who hated her job?" A borderline cruel, mirthless smile stretched Clara's lips, words heavy with their meaning. "There is no debate what Gordon is going to do to me the moment he receives information about my recovering self. If not in the jail, then they will lock me inside Arkham Asylum. So stop pouring gasoline inside the fire with your lies."

Interrupting Clara's speech, a barely audible knock reached their ears. A young man in a doctor's coat came in. Another ghost from her past, the assassin was now faced with Christian Brook, whose blue eyes lacked any previous childishness. Those large, already matured puppy orbs observed the woman on the bed, examining her non-existing arm with unhid professionalism. Not looking at the nurse, Christian addressed her. "I am afraid you have to leave us now. The patient requires rest and care." As she stood up, Clara avoided her tired gaze, only listening to the retreating footsteps. Her attention was set on the man in front of her, lingering on his familiar, yet distinct and unseen features. "I need to inspect your wound." In a calming voice, Christian explained the reasoning behind his visit, not addressing the elephant in the room. Was there even an elephant? Or was Clara imagining things just to fill in the blank space and the uncomfortable silence?

The woman nodded once but hissed the same second he touched the remaining part of her arm. Christian threw her a worried look but remained silent. "So you're going to just stand here with your mouth shut?"

The man blew out a gust of air that he was holding, and lifted his gentle, turquoise eyes towards the assassin's steely ones. They all seemed to have the same strange, soft expression plastered on their faces, making Clara question the reasoning behind it. Did she become so pathetic? Lamentable? "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Give me an assuring speech of how I will be okay, perhaps? Lie to me how they will let me be untouched, alone in my secured house, mourning my disability."

"I can. But if you are the same woman I knew you to be, I will not do this. Because the old Clara would never allow others to do so." His answer pierced the surgeon's chest with its honesty. Christian lowered his head once more, tending the fresh wound.

"I see." She watched him for a moment before a half-smirk stretched her dry lips. "Congratulations on finally becoming a doctor." The man smiled, too, tension leaving his body all of a sudden.

"Yeah. That was unexpected. I didn't even think about applying for a job among Gotham General staff for at least the upcoming three years. I wanted to travel a bit, visit the countries abroad. But it turned out, they had a rather positive opinion about me. Since we're lacking doctors at the moment, they offered me a place." Clara nodded slowly, relaxing into the man's warm touch. It didn't hurt anymore, only a gentle tickle could be felt.

"I mocked you in my mind. Now, I wish I could turn back the time, and say something more encouraging to you, Christian. I am proud of you."

"Hey. Are you getting soft, Doc?" A cheerful smile shone in his young face, straight white teeth glistening in the bright room. "Perhaps it was the lack of compliments from your department what actually pushed me to give hundred and ten per cent, and not give up on my goals."

"I really hope so." The surgeon followed him with the eyes of molten silver, and for the first time, her true age was not disguised behind an unbreakable mask. Clara didn't seem old, at least not through the eyes of Christian Brook, and not in a typical way one would imagine someone 'old'. The woman looked like an ancient warrior who went through hell, mocked the devil, and came back to tell the story. "Do you have time?"

"I do. My lunch break starts in ten minutes."

"Then sit with me. And tell me what was happening when I was knocked out."

 _Song of the chapter: THENX - Corner Swangin_

I'm not dead yet, folks. Been working on, planning out a new project of mine, which consumed the majority of my writer's inspiration resources. Check it out if you're a fan of Christopher Paolini's books. They will be altered according to my preferences, formulated around a highly neglected character - Blodhgarm.


	23. Comrade

Clara could feel minutes ticking by, morphing into hours until finally, they became long, everlasting days, the majority of which was spent staring at the ceiling, counting tiny cracks in paint, and balancing on the thin line between sanity and madness.

The assassin was not aware where exactly did they put her. Without any windows in the room, only a tiny bathroom area connected to the main ward, there was no way not only to distinguish day from the night but also recognize the environment, the area of Gotham she was being held in. The only way of judging the time was by taking into account her inner clock's voice, which was developed relatively well throughout the years, and also the people that came to take care of her limb and also brought meals.

The food in this place was horrible. Worse than she would have imagined. Milky, sugary white bread, lacking the depth of taste. Watered-down yoghurt, also full of sugar, flavoured with artificial flavours. An excuse for a banana, which was browned to the point of turning black. No protein. No meat to provide her body with the required amino acids to heal itself. No essential fatty acids for tissue repair and proper brain function. No vitamins and minerals to aid her recovery process. How was one supposed to survive on a diet, which consisted mainly of pure sugar? By the end of the third day, Clara ended up throwing the food down the toilet, fasting for longer and longer periods of time. It seemed better than filling herself with that inflammatory crap, comforting herself that in her next location the food will be better.

Her sentence was announced the next day after waking up, by the commissioner himself. Remembering the scene, Clara wished she could fulfil her sudden urge to laugh maniacally at the irony, the absurd of the situation. Her lips stayed sealed shut, and only an angry flame in her eyes, which melted the ice, indicated her true feelings underneath a mask of indifference. Gordon was not pitying her, convinced that everything that happened was her own fault. And it was, to a certain extent. The surgeon's actions were a catalyst to further situation development.

A week later, this was the day the assassin had to finally move to Arkham Asylum. The last destination to which she had to be sent. In the early morning, two beefed-up officers in smooth, spotless uniforms entered her ward-cell. Clara had been waiting for them and met the two giants halfway, in the middle of the room. The woman was fully dressed, wearing a mask of polite neutrality on her sharp-angled face. One of them took out handcuffs, nodding for Clara to extend her remaining arm. The man cuffed it, locking the other part of the metal device on his own much thicker wrist. Tugging gently, he checked the security. As the metal didn't give up, he nodded once again, this time for his colleague, who responded by taking his place on the other side of Clara, almost touching her left side. The woman flinched slightly when his upper arm brushed the cut-off limb but remained moving towards the exit.

The predator got tamed. Where a group of guards would be needed before, now only a pair did its job. The danger, the strength, the raw power - it all was gone, dissipating in thin air. Clara's form was hunched forward, her proud head lowered, shoulders rounded. Defeated. It was a silhouette of a defeated warrior. And only eyes, her steely eyes remained the same, hard and cold, promising pain and sorrow for those who dared cross her path. Yet, no one looked at her downcast eyes, taking in only the broken, mutilated body, forgetting that the real monster hid inside, deep within the mind of the assassin.

A large van, similar to the one she used to drive in Israel, was waiting. The surgeon was put in the back, her two guards following shortly after, one sitting in front, the other one, with which she was locked, on her side. The three people remained silent, not a word uttered. It was not the place to share their opinions, nor to make small talks.

Both of the officers knew who the woman was. After the first week of her arrival to Gotham, Clara's name and reputation spread around quickly. It was only natural for citizens to get acknowledged with the city's surgeon. And now, confusion found its place in the men's heads, as they knew the woman to be someone of great importance. It was hard to believe the respected surgeon to have done something terrible, becoming an ally of the Joker. Doubt spread inside their guts, making the officers question the clarity and of the situation.

Their journey couldn't have lasted more than half an hour, yet the time went by tormentingly slowly. Clara felt uncomfortable sitting this whole time in one place, in a static position as her balance without additional limb was thrown off, making it difficult to find a suitable posture. Her back started hurting, adding to the displeasure of tingling, pinch-like feeling in her remaining part of the upper arm. Neither of the cops seemed to notice that, busying themselves with staring at the floor. Counting dust, probably.

The van stopped moving. A minute later, a low sound behind the back door could be heard, and a ray of sunlight hit the woman. Caught off guard, Clara had to narrow her eyes into tiny slits as the light made them hurt. When they finally adapted, the form of the third man came into focus. Taller and leaner than the other two, only his silhouette was seen with the background of blinding sun. "Step outside." The new man commanded, and his throaty, rich voice naturally demanded attention. "Please." He added, to soften the instruction, probably seeing the way Clara's eyes narrowed once more in the displeasure of being ordered around. She knew her face was in full display, as the light hit her straight in the face. No wonder the third man had an urge to add the pleasantries.

Hunched forward, the assassin crept to the edge of the van, tugging the bulky officer together behind and not allowing her grey eyes to move away from the dark figure. With surprising ease, she jumped down, landing in front of the mysterious man, straightening up and staring him up and down. Clara's reaction startled her. The woman had this sudden urge to impress, to conquer this male, to show off. To dominate. The feeling came out of nowhere and stuck with unbelievable force, making her forget the injury, the pain, the discomfort. Clara could feel the larger cop beside her stepping outside, too, but her attention was devoted to the tall, bloody tall creature in front.

He _was_ tall. At least two inches taller than Joker, the man loomed half head above the surgeon. Clara had to admit to herself that if her preferences hadn't been psychotic clowns, she would have drooled over this stranger. Minding the fact that the woman was rarely physically attracted to others, and tended to inspect people through the point of view of a doctor - cold and analytical. Tall and muscular, judging from the way his v-neck clinched to his chest and arms, he was built like a perfect triangle. _Where is that craving to rip his throat coming from?_

The man cleared his throat, effectively bringing Clara's attention to his face, in which the assassin met amused, blue-green eyes staring back at her. "Are you checking me out?" The stranger's voice was filled with mirth, lightly mocking the woman.

"No. I'm thinking of ways to murder you right here and now. Currently counted seven." In contrast to his high spirits, Clara responded with dead seriousness. But the spear didn't hit its target. The woman stared at him in confusion, when the male grinned, his handsome, model-like features projecting clear, unhidden amusement. Now Clara knew why she had this urge to do something macabre to him. He infuriated her with his non-faltering confidence. This was an alpha male, conquering for dominance with the former commando.

"Good. Till we reach your new home, you can think of the three more." Was he... Making _fun_ of Clara? He wasn't, was he? _He was._ Speechless, the assassin allowed him to push her lightly, without noticing when did the man manage to release her right wrist from the handcuffs. "I will take her from here. Thank you." He addressed Clara's guards, dismissing them.

They started moving towards the gate. Her body was stiff and hard, every muscle tense, jaw locked to the point of almost breaking. The assassin did not like it. Not even a tiny bit. "Before you burn the building with your gaze, I want you to know a few things." The man's voice, coming somewhere deep from his chest, made Clara focus her attention on him. She was aware of their proximity. The vulnerability inside her gut didn't ease, even without handcuffs restraining her movements. The surgeon knew she wouldn't be able to do anything, and the understanding killed her over and over again. If she previously had a chance of restraining, choking the male behind, now it was absolutely impossible to do that. "You will not play the madness card with me. I recognize the crazy ones, and you wouldn't seem like one from a mile away. I'm not sure why they decided to put you in Arkham Asylum, but at the end of the day, it's not my business."

"Are you British?" Clara suddenly interrupted the man, earning a surprised 'huh' from him. "You talk with an accent. Or are you faking it?" She physically felt his lake-blue eyes digging in her back. The woman slowly regained her composure, control seeping back into her veins. Clara's breathing stabilized, and the change did not remain unnoticed by the stranger.

"I am British. Fully and completely. But my heritage is of no importance right now." He had a certain advantage of walking behind, disallowing the assassin to take in his feelings that were projected by his body language. There was no faltering in the man's voice, giving an impression of him being unaffected by her question. "As I said before you interrupted me, I don't buy this bullshit about your disturbed state of mind."

"Trust me, the rumours about my mental unstableness are not faulty at all."

"Well, madness is a matter of personal view, right? I don't find the definition of craziness in you. But I do find it among other patients. Watch out. They're sneaky as hell. Might nibble on you, take a bite or two." With that, Clara stopped moving completely, making the man crush into her back. The heavy creature might have pushed her to the ground if not his quick reflexes. The man steadied himself, catching the swaying woman at the same time. She turned, freeing herself from his grasp, cold fury burning deep within her eyes. The sun shone high above, rays of light playing in the stranger's dirty blonde strands.

"Do I even know you? Who do you think you are to give _me_ lectures? Do you know _who_ I am, _boy_?" Clara didn't stop here, backing him back towards the empty road. If she weren't so pissed of, the woman might have noticed something close to honest concern is his devilishly handsome face. "An absent arm is _nothing_. The only one who should not be afraid of anything in this building," she spat. "is _me_."

The man held his arms in a deliberate manner, palms facing Clara, non-verbally showing her that he did not intend to cause any harm. She had to be dealt with like a wild animal. "I feel slightly wounded you do not recognize me, _Captain_." The woman stopped, staring at this enigmatic man, not understanding what he meant. "You don't, do you? Not as sharp anymore, huh?" The smile tugged his plump lips upwards. He was enjoying seeing Clara squirm under his attentive gaze, she _knew_ it.

"I've met many people during my lifetime, boy. You don't seem that unique to be worth memorizing."

"Ouch." The man faked his hurt, putting a hand on his left peck. "If so, we might just remain walking. Perhaps when you are settled in your room, sedated with a cocktail of drugs, the mist in your mind will clear up. Just so you know, since your..." He threw a quick look towards the non-existent limb. "Condition might lead to dangerous situations, both to you and other patients, I've been ordered to trail after you wherever you decide to go. Get used to me being your guard."

"Aren't the cells secured on their own or something? Locked, disallowing patients to mingle?" They started moving again, and for the assassin's pleasure this time the man fell into step beside her, not behind.

"It's not a jail, Clara." She cocked her head, dark strands falling to the side. "Only the worst gets locked. Furthermore, they are being fed various pills for breakfast, lunch and dinner. It would be enough to sedate a horse. Don't swallow them. Keep the drugs underneath your tongue or on the sides of your cheeks, until you can spit them out. The pills do not melt that easily, giving enough time to discard them."

"You seem to know awfully lot about everything."

"I have been working here for a few years. One gets used to the system easily." As they neared the entrance, he grabbed Clara's right arm, gently holding around the bicep. Loose enough not to hurt, but maintaining the image of securing her. For some reason, this enigmatic man didn't want to cause any harm to her. Not only that, but he seemed kind enough to warn the surgeon. Clara tried hard to remember him. She dug deep inside her brain, searching for a familiar face, for something that would resemble the person walking beside her. But her mind was blank. Nothing.

He was right. Arkham Asylum did not resemble a jail. Instead, the building looked awful lot like an actual hospital. A secured hospital with a tall fence and guards wandering among doctors. A hospital with patients, whose gazes seemed way too clouded and out-of-focus. "Mr Mallory!" The man next to Clara took a sharp breath, making them both stop, and turned towards the sound. Bells started ringing inside the commando's head. She knew that name. The mist in her mind cleared up. Oh, she knew that name very well... "Mr Mallory, is this our new patient you're escorting?"

A woman in her mid-twenties, perhaps a few years older, neared them, her face twisted with a non-dimming smile. Curiously, she took in Clara's appearance, everything from the sunken eyes, gaunt cheeks, to the empty sleeve and straight, unbent posture. This tiny person could be a whole head smaller than the surgeon, yet acted as if she was at her mercy. And Clara probably was. "Lisa." The man, _Mr Mallory_ , nodded politely. "Is there anything I could do for you?"

"No, of course not. Wouldn't bother you with mortals' problems. Only wanted to come by to say hi." She smiled even wider, like a lazy cat with a canary in her stomach. "Our new patient's room is ready to be occupied. But first I would like to take a few necessary steps to ensure the well-being of you," she gestured towards Clara. "and our other patients." The woman's hand was momentarily hidden by the fabric of her white coat. When it reappeared again, a small bottle was held tightly in it. "Please, take those right now."

So that's what her guard meant when talking about pills. With a bittersweet smile, Clara tugged slightly for the man to release her right arm, and extended it to take the bottle. "Should I take them dry, or will you offer me some water to wash everything down?" The assassin noticed the left side of the doctor's face twitch, straining to maintain her smile steady.

"Sure. If you want, there is a bar right behind you. Everything from water to all sorts of juices." Clara nodded, turning around. She found a glass of water indeed, threw the pills from the bottle inside her mouth, and washed them down with a large gulp of water. She stood there for a moment more, before addressing the man over her shoulder.

"Could we please go to my room now? I'm feeling a little tired." Her grey eyes shone with untold anger, sending a visual message. Immediately, he came next to her, and without giving further attention to the young woman, guided Clara deeper into the asylum.

She lost the tracks on their whereabouts quickly. The building resembled a maze, and it was hard to orient around. "Is there..." Clara fell silent for a moment, tugging her arm away and spitting the pills in her palm. "Is there a map of some sorts that I could borrow? I doubt I will be able to orient in this place."

"That's why you have me." Her jaw kept tightening and relaxing, and otherwise blank face showed a strange expression. At first, the man couldn't pinpoint what he was seeing. Clara smirked slowly, lifting one corner of her long mouth. She was containing maniacal giggling inside.

"Right, Ashwood. Just like old times, huh?" A low laugh tore out of her throat, startling the man. He widened his pale aquamarine eyes, remaining silent. "And here I was musing why I had this instant urge to get my fingers after your heart. Or liver, I wouldn't mind that either. Now it kinda makes sense."

"Should I feel offended you didn't recognize me earlier, Captain?" Clara shrugged.

"It's been a long time. You changed a lot. In the army, you could have been mistaken for a pretty girl. Now, you grew into a handsome male model. Still gorgeous as a doll, but in an altered way. Not to mention the meat that you put on yourself."

"I worked out." Ashwood nodded to no one in particular and cringed. "A lot. I still do."

"I can see that." They reached a closed door, one of many, and stopped in front. The man took out a key and unlocked it.

"Welcome to your new home, Clara."

 _Song of the chapter: Scars on Broadway - Enemy_


	24. The Man And The Wolf

Ashwood enjoyed predicting things. In fact, he tended to predict a lot. Often. The enjoyment came from the fact that predictions were only that - predictions. There was no necessity for them to become reality. Predictions had the ability to remain in the air, without a body, and float there for an eternity.

When he was younger, Ashwood used to predict his future often. Every time it tended to change a bit, morphing and adapting, depending on his mood and also the environment. Some days, he thought he might be a good vet. Other days, he dreamed of his life as a millionaire, surrounded by hot long-legged girls and drinking champagne for breakfast. These were the good days.

Every now and then, a bad day occurred, more and more of them the older Ashwood got. On those days, his fears got the better of him, and he would get snappy. Angry. Aggression was his way of dealing with panic. Feeling as if the whole world betrayed him, Ashwood cursed the fate over and over again for giving him the path that he had to stand on. On days like this, he would skip school, pack his bag full of food, and disappear in the forest nearby. A thriving British forest, the one that your grandma would tell about, scaring little girls with the big bad wolf lurking behind thick trunks. Sometimes, when the situation at home got heated, Ashwood would take his sister with him. But their father never touched Liana. No, if he raised his fist, it was either against the boy or his mum.

His heart would increase its rate every time he heard those heavy steps echoing in the hall. Ashwood counted himself lucky if the noise didn't stop on the other side of the door to his room, and Mr Mallory skipped his training session. Those days were the boy's rest days, too. And sometimes, as they went on, they could even be counted as 'normal', because his mother was calm and collected, his sister would play peacefully in the garden, and there would be no tension weighing Ashwood's shoulders. Those days were rest days because he could allow himself not to worry, take a break from _waiting_. Years after the boy morphed into a man, Ashwood would think to himself that the worst part of living with a sleeping beast was the waiting for it to wake up. The anticipation of what will happen the next time. When you are being harassed, there is no much thinking, mostly the feeling part remains. But funny enough, our mind is much more dangerous than neuron-fuelled experiences. Therefore, expecting bad things becomes worse than actually experiencing them.

When Ashwood was fifteen, he got into a nasty fight with his father. One of the worst so far. These were the years when the boy hit a growth spurt, and almost every piece of his clothing needed to be replaced. Ashwood's limbs got longer, more muscular, the youth started disappearing from his face, morphing into something more resembling a fully grown man than a child. His features got sharper and more pronounced, attracting attention from girls at school. Just like father, Ashwood was an early bloomer, and soon enough would reach the height of his maker. New expenses for the necessary items, or perhaps the feeling of soon upcoming, inevitable competition between the son and the father for the place in the family's hierarchy triggered hatred in the older man's chest.

The beating was brutal. As brutal as it could get without murdering someone. Ashwood was left bloody and broken, with a fractured rib and broken nose, hurting lower back and wobbly legs, which managed only take him so far into the forest to hide their house. The boy collapsed, coughing harshly, grunting in agony, his eyes filled with pain and humiliation. It was mortifying. He was supposed to fight back, to stand for himself and the ones he cared about, to protect his mother and sister. To show them that not everything is as bad as it looks. Yet, he ran away like a coward, too scared to stand even for himself.

Moaning lowly, the boy slowly rose, hunching over when a sharp pang hit him somewhere inside. His ribs had to be damaged, there was no other way around. Ashwood knew there was a stream somewhere nearby. He concentrated on his breathing, mustering the remaining strength that he had, and wandered deeper into the dark, cool shadows.

As predicted, the river was there indeed. Ashwood lowered, reaching for water, not taking in his surroundings, just forcing his mouth to open, pouring the cold water inside. His throat resembled a desert, it was so dry. Droplets of red fell down into the water. What escaped his mouth, ran down his abused flesh and went back from where it came. Mesmerized, with his agony forgotten for a moment, Ashwood followed the red stream flowing away from him. The boy's blue-green eyes reached something that should not be here, and his body froze, heartbeat jumping up. That something lowered its large head, sniffing the red-saturated, running stream, giving a low sound as the smell of blood hit its nose.

The scent of a wounded animal attracted the predator. The wolf, with its nose so much more sensitive than the one of a human, probably followed him for a while, expecting a free meal sooner or later. Blinded by his tragedy, or perhaps the wolf was just so good at remaining out of the sight, the human didn't notice a beast on his tracks.

Think. He had to think.

Under normal circumstances, Ashwood would know what to do. The forest was filled with smaller and larger predators, deers and elks. To remain untouched, he had to be careful, but also know how to behave in situations like this. Usually, wolves didn't attack people. But if they do, one should not freeze in fear or try to make himself smaller. One must not run nor remain unmoving because it will only attract the predator. You have to present yourself as a bigger, more dangerous creature, so the animal would hesitate, falter, and finally decide against attacking someone stronger.

Ashwood thought he knew that. But in the moment of panic, the knowledge disappeared. The boy was rigid as a stone, staring at the animal with fear rising in his chest. He started backing off, which only interested the wolf even further. His prey was running away. The predator rose from his sitting position, leapt over the narrow stream, extending his long, muscular body, which covered with deep grey mane and started nearing the boy. He lowered his large head slightly, honey-coloured eyes staring at Ashwood, and let out a low, murmuring noise.

The boy's fate was set. There were no tools to chase away the wolf. No rocks big enough to hit the animal with, no long branches laying around. The trunks of trees were too thick and tall to climb into. Even if Ashwood tried to run, the killer instinct would kick in, and the wolf most likely attacked the boy. He snapped with his jaws at the human, attentive, cunning eyes promising pain, greater than his father could have ever inflicted. Ashwood closed his eyes, shutting off the world around. He waited.

He had to wait long. Longer than the boy originally anticipated. When he finally felt something, it was not resembling pain at all. Ashwood was waiting for razor-sharp teeth pierce his abused skin, sinking into bruised flesh. But what came was a warm, soft lick with something wet, and a low whine-like sound coming from somewhere in front. The human's eyes snapped open, terror mixed with confusion in those lake orbs.

The wolf was murmuring his strange song, deep sounds mixed with an occasional silent wail. His tongue, covered in red colour, kept appearing to clean the boy's bruised knuckles. Ashwood swayed on his feet, and as he tried to back off, the wolf gave a warning, guttural rumble. He would not allow the boy to run away.

Soon, Ashwood's hands were clean of any blood. The grey creature looked up at his face and snarled lowly. _Down_. Immediately, not to anger him, the boy lowered himself, sitting on his heels. As soon as he did that, the animal attacked the dried blood on the human's cheeks, jaw and even neck, effectively licking it off with long strokes of a long tongue. The wolf did not show any signs of aggression. He treated the boy as his wounded comrade, took care of bleeding wounds, just like he would do to another of his species.

Finally, Ashwood's body was free of red. He did not know how to react to such strange behaviour of the animal. The human was not as tense anymore, and his chest rose with slower breaths than before. The wolf simply sat there, staring at the boy with expectation, as if asking his little friend whether he is alright. Ashwood let out a silent chuckle, amused and relieved beyond words. He did not get eaten nor attacked, and suddenly, in the presence of his new supporter, the incident with his father seemed to lose its vivid colours.

The little-big human reached his home only late that night, the whole time staying near the cool stream with the grey wolf. After being fully cleaned, he did not expect the animal to stick around any longer, but apparently, the creature had other plans. He stayed with the boy, far enough not to touch him, but close, oh so very close, allowing Ashwood to feel the heat radiating off of him. And only when the night settled in did the animal finally disappear into the woods, leaving Ashwood alone. Yet, he did not feel alone at all. Something had changed during those few hours spent in the wolf's silent company, under the heavy, knowing yellow gaze.

The next day, Ashwood couldn't contain himself at school. He was excited, and even the blind could tell that something was happening with his usually collected self. The perks of living in a suburban British area was that no one questioned the reasoning behind one's bruises and short breaths, pained expressions or crooked nose, therefore he wasn't bothered with overly attentive peers or teachers. After all, it was not their business what was happening behind the closed door of one's family house. But the unusual liveness and energy that radiated off of the boy did not go unnoticed. Ashwood couldn't care less about their stares. His mood was elevated to the sky.

That morning, his father complained that he had found tracks of a wolf near their house. Such large predator was a serious threat to their chickens. But Ashwood didn't mind the birds. It meant that his friend followed him. The wolf didn't abandon the boy. And now the lessons couldn't have passed quick enough because the only urge in Ashwood's mind was to run away, straight to the forest, and find the animal once more. Which of course he did immediately after coming back home. Ashwood filled his backpack with various food items - a block of cheese, some bread, also a piece of red meat, either beef or lamb, he couldn't decide which one it was. The boy hurried outside, rushing towards the stream where he knew, he just had a feeling in his guts that the wolf was waiting for him.

The grey creature was there indeed.

This was the start of a strange friendship between a soon-to-be man and a wolf. Ashwood continued meeting the animal every few days, every time bringing him a piece of something edible. They played. The human learned to distinguish anxious wolf from an excited wolf. He could pinpoint the reasoning behind his friend's behaviour. He let out a sound, and the grey wolf would come. The boy was his pack, and finally, Ashwood was not alone in this world.

The wolf did not change, but the boy did. He grew, and together with his body also grew and improved his personality and mind. Ashwood toughened up. Although the beating did not ease, he was not the one with a split lip and bruised skin those times. He learned to stand for himself, to fight for what he believed was right. Unfortunately, some damage never eased, embedded permanently in the man's brain. Calm and collected when not under pressure, Ashwood reacted to negativity with aggression. He couldn't help himself snapping at those who infuriated him. This was the end result of what eighteen years of constant terror inflicted, and now, being a fully formed man, he couldn't change the principles of survival that he was raised under. He reacted to a threat like a scared animal would, by biting and clawing, barking at 'danger'. It was probably the main reason why Ashwood remained without any real human friends. As handsome as he grew, physical beauty could only do so much to compensate harshness and mistrustful personality.

With age came duties. Ashwood finished school and the dilemma of what to do with his life came into the picture. As much as he wanted to stay with his four-legged friend, the young man didn't want to follow his father's steps. Sleepless nights were spent debating with himself, searching for the path that he wished to take, yet none was found. Until one of his classmates during the last lesson announced he is going to depart overseas, to fight the evil in this world. He was going to be a war volunteer. Something clicked, and Ashwood knew what he wished to do with his life. The misunderstood hero in him craved to do something admirable, and war at that time seemed the best option.

And it seemed like a perfect decision. His father remained silent, but Ashwood's mother teared up, praising her brave, smart son for giving his youth and strength away to the war. Continuously telling how proud she was. Surrounded by his mother's flowery scent, the young man met Liana's accusing, hurt gaze, and lowered his own blue-green orbs down. Let it be.

The next morning, his sister went missing. They were searching for her for days until finally, the worst had to be admitted.

Two months later, Ashwood departed to Israel with a bleeding heart. For his grey friend, who he knew will expect him every day near their stream, and for his sister, who he thought he will never see again.

 _Song of the chapter: Papa Roach - Born For Greatness_

* * *

If you couldn't tell by now, Ashwood Mallory is going to be a relatively prominent character in this story (hence he got a whole chapter only for himself). The Schemer is pretty much already planned to the end (did I just say it is going to end soon? Huh?), and I do not intend to alter anything too much. While scheduling the upcoming chapters, I've come to the conclusion that I just can't leave Ashwood hovering in the last chapter, unlike the majority of my other characters that are not so dear to my heart. Therefore, I'm going to dedicate a whole new book to him alone. The story (again, I've been working on it for the past two weeks, trying to construct the bordering of each chapter) will not have anything in common with The Dark Knight nor Gotham in general, except for mentionings of certain details (which will be explained throughout), therefore it can be read as a stand-alone. I do not intend releasing the new story any time soon, not before The Schemer is finished. Mainly because the first chapter alone contains details that indicate the ending and the fate of Clara, and I don't want to ruin the surprise effect. So, if I manage to make you fall in love with Ashwood in this story and you're not satisfied with how I am going to leave him be, don't hesitate to check out my upcoming book. His journey is not going to end just yet.


	25. Ruthless

It was not as hard as Clara initially anticipated. Not at all, to get used being without an arm. Perhaps it was due to the fact that she was agile and adaptable as a wild cat, or perhaps humans simply tend to over-exaggerate the importance of four limbs on one's body. The woman didn't know which one of those it had to be, but the fact that she managed to bounce back into her usual collected self both amazed and satisfied her.

Although there were a few things she doubted she could ever do as well as she used to. Jiu-Jitsu, for instance. Clara had asked Ashwood, one of her former fighting partners back overseas, to fight with her, and was flung over his shoulder in no time. Maybe it was due to the fact that the man grew a lot since then, not only looming over her but also surpassing Clara with his width and the amount of muscle mass on his bones. A few weeks back it wouldn't have mattered. Jack was also a large human being, yet she had little trouble standing up for herself, matching his strength with her own. It was a different story now.

Jack. She didn't hear about him this whole time. Whether he flew the city, was alive or dead, planning another mass murdering or simply staying in his house watching old films, Clara had no idea. Probably forgot her the next day she didn't show up at his house, and that was fine with Clara, the lack of care and mutual trust between them. There was a reason why they never discussed the relationship that they had, the status, the feelings. Simply put, there were none, or at least not as much as it had to be to give a reason to care about each other. He was a challenge, while she was an entertainment.

Still, the pang of curiosity for his fate remained. The assassin debated with herself whether she should ask Ashwood as he knew much more than her, but stopped herself before taking action. He had left the military a few years back wearing his suspicious view of the world on his sleeve. There was no reason to fuel his old habits and paranoia.

Days didn't go by as painfully slowly in Arkham Asylum as they were in her lonely, secured cell. The place was interesting, to say the least. Unusual people made it look much more hospitable than it was supposed to be in the first place. Jail for the mad? Perhaps. A very pleasant jail, then. The majority of residents were insane indeed, and if they weren't, then they were soon-to-be. No one walked around without first getting drugged and tricked into being a vegetable. For Clara, as a former, very talented and bright-minded doctor, it was purely fascinating to watch what could a mix of very precisely measured, yet simple substances do to the human's body. It was a game of one's individual reaction and the power of a drug. A battle that could not be won without cheating. A pointless war of the mind.

A soft knock, and then an opening crack was heard behind Clara. She moved her head around, watching silently her handsome guard approach. He didn't wear his uniform, only a grey t-shirt hugging his muscular physique, hard ridges on his arms and shoulders protruding through the thin material. "Ashwood."

"Captain." That silky voice, a deep-throated baritone, could have melted the coldest heart, break the stone and make women clench their thighs together. The man possessed a voice meant only to be heard between the four walls of one's bedroom, secured safely underneath a heavy blanket, muttering words inside the ear of his lover. It was meant not to be responded to because any other tone that followed that specific voice would be equal to the dirt on one's shoes.

"Are you wearing a child's t-shirt?" Clara felt like laughing. Chuckling a little, she pondered over and over again, not reaching the conclusion throughout the years, what was wrong with her to not feel the pull towards her own comrade, to not drop on her knees and beg to be near the man in the most sensual way possible in the physical world. Especially when the said man was closer than a few meters beside her, giving the surgeon his undivided attention. As otherworldly as it sounded, it was hard to feel anything more than a platonic closeness to the person that went through hell together with Clara. Ashwood was not her love interest. He was a comrade.

Now, the said comrade was giving her a murdering look, the bottom of his exposed neck turning pale pink. "No, it is my old t-shirt. One of those that used to fit a few years back. Didn't want to waste such high-quality material."

"Sure. Or you could just admit you put it on with an idea in mind of seducing half of Arkham's female doctors." He blew out a slow gust of air through his nose. Ashwood understood it was just a tease meant to annoy him, one of many endured through the years of following his superior, and yet, he succumbed to a well-placed trap. Clara responded with a slow smile of her own, not the one teeth-showing, but a genuine, rare, a tiny movement of her ever-chapped lips. "You know I am just joking, and yet you respond like a fire-breathing dragon from Tolkien's books. Why is that?"

"I guess my brain keep confusing the time and environment. I am good looking, I know, but I acknowledge it with the part of my mind that is not tied to whatever responsible for my feelings and insecurities." He took a seat on Clara's bed, and she had to crane her neck back to be able to see him. The chair she was sitting on was not one of the comfortable ones, but it was good enough if you wanted to spend time sitting in front of a small desk near the window.

"You are attractive, Ash. I'll give you that, even in an undersized t-shirt. In fact, it makes you look bigger than you are. When did you start working out seriously?"

"I was already working out while being overseas. But I was lean. Now, I guess I hit a growth spurt or something. A little late, just like everything in my life." Ashwood let out a humourless bark that had to be understood as laugh and allowed his head to drop back, staring at the ceiling.

These were their days, already becoming a routine. Early mornings spent in her room, disguised as a security check, but actually, long and meaningless conversations about whatever topic on their mind at that moment. Ashwood was an easy human to be around and reminded Clara of another man that she knew and befriended a long time ago. James was another level of a partner, but he was older, more experienced, and at that time in Israel, Ashwood's youthfulness was a refreshing gust of air in an otherwise bleak environment. Now, his company was just as pleasant as it had been before, but in a different way. The man grew, matured, and his intelligence that always lurked behind his blue-green eyes showed itself with full force and intensity.

He broke the silence, still staring at the ceiling, examining tiny cracks in the white paint. "You've lost some weight."

"Have I?"

"You have. You seem thinner than before. Are you eating well?" Clara rolled her eyes.

"No, Ash. I am not. And I am not exercising at all, therefore my body is cannibalizing the muscle I have put on me throughout the years." Her steely gaze sought his own eyes, and as if feeling the call, the man brought his lake-coloured orbs to her. "I have no appetite for the crappy food that I am given, and I have no intentions to force my body to do something it does not want to do."

Food was another thing that both amazed Clara, and also angered her. How could someone function properly when fed a diet filled with processed products and artificial chemicals? Such food was cheap, yes, and lasted longer than the fresh produce the assassin was used to eating, but it had either no taste at all, or was flavoured so strongly she could not consume it without gagging. On those rare occasions when hunger consumed her fully, Clara would ask Ashwood to secretly bring her something freshly cooked and nutritious from the outside world. A steak, colourful vegetables, sometimes fruit if she suffered from a sweet tooth, and chocolate, good quality chocolate that they shared sitting cross-legged on her bed, talking nonsense or simply enjoying the silence. Ashwood joked that she made him become a quality-chocolate addict, and admitted that it was probably the best addiction he could ever imagine. Otherwise, although the man offered to bring her meals every night, Clara refused his good intentions to be implemented into reality. This half-starving protocol already started transforming the woman's body into something unfamiliar and unseen on her tall frame, making Clara's lean muscles pop, giving her body a dry-looking appearance. She was hovering on a line between athletic and just unhealthy-looking. Her hands, always vascular, became a spiderweb of raised lines without much body fat to hide them. The inked flesh covering her back and front was hugging her physique tightly, and it was just a matter of time when her body decided it didn't have enough body fat to feed on, and started consuming the expensive muscle tissue.

Ashwood released air from his lungs but didn't bring the topic any further. He knew better than to infuriate the woman in front. What he did, though, still made him feel slightly victorious. Digging inside his pants pocket, the man took out a broken bar of dark chocolate. Waving it in front of his head, his eyes followed the movement of Clara's grey ones, noticing her jaw clench. "You just had to do that, didn't you?"

"Me? Shouldn't I eat chocolate? It is you who decided to starve, not me. I like my sweets." With that, he opened the packaging, and popped a piece of dark goodness in his mouth, moaning with that bed voice of his. Ashwood heard the woman's sharp intake of breath and smirked slowly when she stood up, nearing the bed with precise, calculated movements. She eyed the bar.

"You know, if I were my old self, you would lay in your own liquids right now for teasing me with food." She propped on the bed facing Ashwood, who offered her the dark sweet.

"There is no denying you were ruthless back in the days. Now, not so much. Your claws had been shortened to tiny stubs, Captain." She allowed the chocolate to melt on her tongue, savouring the taste. It was good chocolate, giving the eater a pleasant mouthfeel, one of the most important criteria when evaluating the quality of chocolate.

"Claws grow back, Ash. Even the most mutilated ones." Clara cracked her neck out of the blue, producing a hollow sound. "And I have all intentions to follow mother nature's voice." The assassin felt his attentive gaze caressing her face, but refused to meet those blue-green eyes. "I had a lot of time to think, Ashwood. I was always good at scheming."

"Why are you telling me this? More importantly, _what_ exactly are you trying to tell me?" His tone held a note of suspiciousness, and suddenly, Clara started doubting her choice of words. Or perhaps the receiver of her words.

"Nothing of great importance. Just spilling out the chaotic content of my mind like I would do if I had a diary." The surgeon gave him an assuring lift of her lips. Disappointment flashed in Ashwood's eyes, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Why would you think I am that stupid to not understand your masterplan of escaping? If there is such a plan, of course. Funny thing, _Captain_ , I am paid to keep you from running away from Arkham Asylum." His tone lowered another note, reaching the depths of the oceans.

"How do you intend to do that, _boy_?" She emphasised the last word, trying to use his insecurities against himself. The situation was getting worse by the second, from a lazy morning talk taking a much darker, more aggressive route. Clara knew her question didn't help ease his anger, if something, it only lit the fire in him. The surgeon waited for Ashwood to snap.

Nothing happened. His breathing was ragged and uneven, but the man remained rigid. Not unresponding, but frozen. With a slight fascination, Clara took in his attempts to control himself. The man clearly practised before, because his hyperventilation eased, calmness projecting on his handsome face. Lake-coloured eyes met her steely ones, cold furry still raging somewhere deep within, but it was dimmed. "Please stop provoking me, Clara."

The woman smiled. The row of white teeth showing from the far ends of her mouth. "You've finally grown a pair, Ash. I'm proud of you." Her long-fingered, thin hand shot forward, stealing another piece of chocolate, the bar laying forgotten in the man's lap. He gave her a dark look, his neck turning pink. The colour crept up, passing his collar and reaching Ashwood's glass-cutting jaw. "Are you blushing?"

"Don't be ridiculous." The man grunted, his face downcast.

"Don't worry, I know you don't have enough blood in your upper body to blush properly. Everything's downside." Clara winked, the behaviour so unusual to her serious, cold self that her ex-comrade froze to the spot, his eyes widening.

"What in the bloody world are you trying to do, Clara?" Ashwood's voice was pained, eyes, suddenly without the previous anger in them, pleading the surgeon to stop whatever she was trying to achieve.

"Me? Nothing. It's all in your head." Her smile didn't ease, but now the man could see the hidden, subtle malicious glint in it. He understood she was giving these remarks on purpose. The woman was ruthless. She knew his weaknesses and played them well when the situation didn't roll as she wanted it to. This was the commando he practically grew with, and Ashwood was stupid enough to believe that these past few days could have turned the assassin soft and accepting. Clara was Clara, just like Ashwood was the same boy somewhere deep, hiding behind the grey wolf.

His shoulders sagged before he recollected himself, straightening up. "Do you want to remain in your room or should we get outside?" She gave him an understanding look. The topic and semi-argument were in the past.

"I might want to have a walk around. I think I am getting better at orienting around the building." She stood up, waiting for Ashwood to put away the chocolate and also rise. He towered above her, casting a dark shadow on her charcoal hair and pale skin. Reaching the end of the room, he opened the unlocked door and allowed Clara to pass.

This was their routine, too. To walk around the building, the assassin trying to memorize all the doors and where they lead, all the corridors and staff rooms, the private areas and public halls, filled with various entertaining devices for the patients. Except no one used them. The majority just sat on sofas, staring in the distance, counting cracks of painting on white walls. When passing another doctor, Clara tried hard to mimic their empty stares and zombie-like postures. Ashwood would immediately put his hand on her shoulder as if projecting the world a message that the woman he was keeping an eye on was so fragile and out of her habitat that she even needed to be physically directed around. Other times, he did not touch her.

Nurses used to follow them around. Them, but specifically him. Ashwood had many admirers among the staff, and it was probably stroking his humble ego a bit too much. His shoulders would immediately straighten up, posture going rigid and tall. The man was like a young peacock, not knowing what to do with his newly-grown feathers.

But not this time, surprisingly. Arkham Asylum was as silent as a grave, no flirtatious nurses running around nor living zombies staring at them with empty eyes. Not a soul in sight. Ashwood seemed to not mind that. "You will break in half if you tense even more, Captain." She threw him a questioning look. "Your back. I can see you flexing the top of your traps."

"This is not normal, is it?" The man shrugged, giving away his indifference.

"It happens sometimes. Either someone had just died and a burying procedure is being executed, or a zombie apocalypse has taken place, and everyone abandoned the building. Leaving us in the process." He gave her a one-sided smirk, the one that would turn any woman into liquid.

"Burying procedure?"

"Yeah. We have a graveyard nearby. You can't see it through your window because it is on the opposite side. The other patients can. In fact," He touched his lower lip with his forefinger, rubbing it in thought. "when I think about it, you're being held among the 'well-behaving' patients. The ones that are harder to control we don't allow to wander around, they remain in their rooms which resemble more of a cell. Perhaps the graveyard is some kind of attempt to scare them into behaving. After all, everybody fears the dead, Captain." He smiled again, and Clara did not miss the spice of irony in his guttural tone. _Two soldiers fearing the dead. Right._

"And who's being buried in there?"

"The ones that had no families, or whose relatives did not want their bodies. Patients die all the time, Clara, and their corpses are rarely needed among the living."

"Are we allowed to... Go there?" Ashwood drew his lower lip between his teeth, biting it lightly.

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Sentiments, perhaps? I might be looking for familiar names." He did not buy that, Clara could see the wheels in his head turning. Yet, the man didn't comment.

"You are, as long as there is someone among the staff to escort you, and you behave." SHe nodded in understanding.

"Then, Ash, I would like you to plan a little trip to the cemetery one of these days." Clara turned, ready to resume their walking when Ashwood muttered something underneath his breath. "Sorry, didn't hear that. My hearing is not as good as it was when I was younger." The man cleared his throat.

"I said, he isn't down there if you were looking for him."

"He - who?"

"The Joker." Clara turned around, a muscle in her jaw twitching.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The Joker is not buried in the graveyard if you wanted to go looking for him. He is very much alive and breathing." The woman lowered her head to the side, examining the person in front. Ashwood misunderstood her intentions once again, jumping to false conclusions.

"Why in the world would I presume Joker is dead? He's like a bloody snake, slimy and adaptable to everything around him." Ashwood shrugged a little.

"I thought you were suspicious of why nobody's talking about him. For a criminal of such fame, he's quite underrated among the walls of Arkham Asylum. After all, he was someone who you were close with."

"Why nobody is talking about him, then? Is that some kind of taboo? He Who Must Not Be Named, huh?" Ashwood threw her a ridiculous look.

"No. He's been in here longer than you have." Clara felt her face harden. "Doctors do not want to inflict any chaos among the patients, therefore, they do not talk about him in public."

"Where is he?" The man's face went blank, no previous playfulness remained. He did not want to tell her, and now, the assassin assumed he regretted even starting this talk. But she waited. Ashwood was a painfully honest man when asked a direct question, he responded truthfully and without hiding.

"On the other side. Among the harder-to-tame patients." He lowered his beautiful head, peeking at Clara through his dirty-blonde strands of hair that fell into his eyes. "Do you want me to escort you to him? We have some time until they end the process." The woman remained silent for a moment. Coldness shielded her misty eyes, the old, familiar ruthlessness clear, promising nothing good.

"I would like that, Ash."

 _Song of the chapter: System Of A Down - Mr. Jack_


	26. Let's Talk About L

"Here." Ashwood stood in front of a one-sided mirror door, a weird expression showing on his beautiful face. He waited for Clara to come closer before he dug inside his pocket and took out a handful of keys with various numbers. Searching for one specific, he made enough noise to announce Jack about their whereabouts.

Finally, the key was inserted. He heaved a sigh, opened the door, and took a long glimpse at whatever was inside. Not looking at Clara, Ashwood muttered. "You have half an hour." He spun around, allowing the woman to pass without eye contact.

The sight in front was not what she expected. The assassin's eyes momentary widened until the mask of indifference covered her face. "Hello, J."

" _Ira_." The same nasal, yet possessing a great depth voice reached Clara's ears, giving her thinning arm goosebumps. Her throat dried out all of a sudden, and not a trace of previous anger could be summoned. _It was not Jack's fault._

"They let you keep your paint." She observed the hunched man in front of her, the very same man she wanted both to embrace with her one remaining arm, and murder in cold blood just minutes ago. These mixed feelings were making Clara anxious. Borderline uncomfortable. When anger alone ruled her thoughts, it was acceptable. She did not want to feel sympathetic for the clown. The clown, who would abandon _her_ without a second thought.

She physically felt his gaze rake through her, caressing the empty sleeve of her white shirt, taking in her much thinner physique, her pale skin and purple bags underneath her sharp, unforgiving eyes. Finally, his bottomless orbs met her frosty glare, lingering there for a long moment. " _Why_ are ya _here_ , toots?" The woman closed her eyes, a bitter smirk playing on her lips. That familiar emphasis of certain words, making his speech a strange cacophony of sounds, it was all so painfully familiar and fresh, raw, as if clawing at yesterday's wound.

"Can't I pay an old friend a visit, huh?" She glanced at his restrained form once more, before taking slow steps towards the window. Sure thing, the graveyard - and a crowd of people - could be seen from here. "Especially when that old friend had been living under the same roof for a week." A note of accusation made its way into Clara's voice, and from her peripheral vision, she saw Joker raising his head a bit, wiggling in his restraint shirt.

"I, uh, _threatened_ to bite the guard's finger _off_. If they didn't give me some _Haloween_ make-up." Joker answered her previous question after a moment, ending it with a low chuckle.

"Sounds just like you." Clara nodded to the window, not taking her eyes off the funeral.

"Who's the _pretty_ boy?" There was a hint of something in that nasal voice of his, but Clara could not pinpoint the specific emotion. She glimpsed at him, unconsciously furrowing her eyebrows a bit.

"My ex-comrade, who had found the meaning of life among the crazy ones." The assassin finally turned around, meeting Joker's dark eyes, acknowledging the uncomfortable-looking shirt that he was restrained with, his hunched position, greenish hair falling in his face, a badly applied layer of paint, rubbing off in a few places. "You don't look too well, Jack." He flinched slightly when hearing his name.

"An- _d_ look _who_ this statement is comin' from." The clown grinned, his white teeth contrasting harshly against crimson lips. "It makes the _two_ of us, _huh_?"

"I guess." Joker didn't lower his eyes, following Clara nearing him step after step until she sat on the other side of the bed that he was positioned on. "How did they manage to capture you?"

" _Curious_ little thing, are ya, _Ira_?" She lifted one eyebrow, waiting for his answer. "Batsy got me."

"That is a very comprehensive story, J." Sarcasm was clear in Clara's voice, colouring her husky tone with a darker colour.

"There _ain't_ much to say, toots. We were, uh, on a _roof_ of a building. _Dogs_ and aroma of _gunpowder_." The clown grinned, remembering everything. "I got Batsy _underneath_ me. In a very _scandalous_ pose. He used his little tools to get me off. Threw me _off_ of the building. Caught me with his _spiderman_ rope. Brough to cops. En- _d. Oh,_ and I tried to blow something u- _p_. Didn't happen." His relaxed expression was fixed on Clara, gauging her reaction. "Didn't have a _schemer_ nearby to plan everything throughout. _Fucked_ something u- _p_."

"I would agree, except I don't know what really happened. Since you're not exactly the most trustworthy information provider, I won't jump to conclusions." The surgeon wiggled a little, making herself more comfortable. "I get numb sitting in one place for too long." She explained when Joker gave her a questioning look.

"Since we are having a, uh, _heart-to-heart_ conversation, when did tha- _t_ happen?" He asked, staring at the empty sleeve. The phantom limb that Clara could swear she started to feel was just... _There_. It was not an unpleasant experience, although it was not comfortable either. It seemed as if she could grab things with the non-existent hand, but she couldn't. Clara tried to touch herself, her legs, her stomach, but nothing happened. Yet, the attachment on her limb failed to disappear completely. Now, under Joker's heavy gaze, it sprang to life once again, and the surgeon had to keep herself collected and calm to not freak the clown out.

"When the other car crashed into Mustang, my left side was crushed. Major fractures in multiple places, punctured muscle, shards of bone everywhere. Would take too much time and resources to dig in and save the arm." Bitterness laced her tone thinking about the potential - happy - ending of this incident. If only the surgeons that operated her had had enough experience in the first place to dig out every tiny shard, or enough courage to chop off chunks of muscles, just to keep the limb itself. If only she had been conscious to instruct them what to do, her left shoulder wouldn't be bare now. When Clara was the war doctor, sometimes the injuries were far greater than the one of her own, and she still managed to keep the soldiers intact. So how much of professionals were these excuses of a surgeon?

"Don- _t explode_ on my bed, toots. Your pretty boy would have to clean that u- _p_." Her rage still simmered down in her body making it go rigid. Breathing helped. It always did. " _Atta_ girl." She threw Joker a calmed down look.

"Pretty boy,huh? Are you changing sides?"

 _"_ For your frien- _d?_ I _would_." The mood in the tiny room brightened a little. "I haven't seen him around. Seeing pretty people are no- _t_ something of a constant experience here."

"I'm positive you wouldn't pass your English test with such sentence structures, Joker. They're unusually intricate for you." The assassin commented, trying to win some time to choose her next words. "When it comes to my 'pretty boy', he's probably something of a VIP escort. A guard reserved only for the most important patients." Clara shook her head. "I don't know. He simply showed up when I was brought here, and nobody questioned his existence. Ashwood himself stated he's been around for a few years."

"Righ- _t_."

"Right?" She lifted her eyebrow again. "You sound as if you didn't believe him."

"Well, I _don't_. I have a nose for _liars_ , Ira. A nose and _eyes_."

"I would know that." She nodded once, curling her body in a seated fetus position and putting her chin on her knees. "He's been out of the army for a few years now. The time... He's been free this whole time. It very well might be Ashwood is not lying, and it's just you who suffers from the lack of observation. Not that you've been in Arkham Asylum for that long, after all."

Before Joker could respond, a low knock echoed in the room. The said man opened the door, taking in Clara's comfortable position on Joker's bed, and the clown, who was sending him murderous look. Not saying anything, Ashwood responded by simply raising his eyebrows in mock question. His youth gave him confidence when it came to standing up for himself in front of a seasoned man. "We should go, Clara." He addressed the woman. "The funeral ended a few minuted ago, everyone's heading back."

"Good." The woman stood up, stumbling only a little bit when blood rushed into her head. Clara threw Joker one last glance, steely eyes holding something unsaid in them. The clown didn't meet her gaze, choosing to keep his black orbs on the other man. With that, not saying anything, she exited his room, Ashwood locking it immediately.

"Come." He urged her to move before they could be caught in the crime scene. "Did you finally create your masterplan of escaping? Should I reduce the amount of sleep I have, and instead focus more on keeping you out of trouble?" Clara laughed a little at that.

"You'd be surprised there is no plan. Don't sabotage your sleep over someone as irrelevant as me." The man grunted in response. "Ashwood?"

"Yeah?"

"Nothing." He let out an annoyed groan, lowering that attractive voice of his an octave. "Clara, stop playing games. Spit it out."

"There is nothing to spit out. I thought better than to ask you uncomfortable questions."

"Sure, whatever that means. I am positive I could take a low blow from you."

"Are you? Why do I have a feeling you would blush like a virgin girl if I did that? Gave you a low blow?" Ashwood rubbed his shoulder in an uncomfortable manner.

"If it is _that_ kind of question..."

"Have you been lying to me?" As soon as Clara's question escaped her lips, the man stumbled, losing his footing, and for a moment she anticipated him to fall in a heap of hard muscle and long limbs on the ground. Thanks to the man's gracefulness, he caught himself, cursing lowly. Ashwood never cursed. "Are you okay?"

"What bullshit did that clown feed you?" It made the surgeon lift her eyebrow, staring at the man on her right side. "He said something, didn't he?"

"That's up to you to decide what he could have told me. Care to share your conclusions?"

"No. There is nothing to hide on my behalf." An angry flame brightened his blue-green eyes and made his hollowed cheeks flush with colour.

"Even the story behind you being here?"

"You don't believe me being a guard?"

"Don't answer my question with a question." Clara snapped, snarling at Ashwood. He threw her a dirty look, equally annoyed. The man's hands tightened into fists, and she could swear he would break something pretty soon.

"Then stop asking stupid questions. I am not a liar, Clara, which could not be said about that clown of yours." Like two furious animals, they stared each other down, searching for a weak spot to bite into, looking for a way to reach their opponent's throats.

Loud footsteps echoed in the background, people rushing towards them. Before Clara could do anything, Ashwood gripped her good shoulder in a vice grip and dragged her down the corridor, towards where her room was. They had to stop a few times, trying to avoid unnecessary interactions and questions. Those times, hiding behind various corners, she was pressed tightly to his side, feeling the man's body heat radiating off of him. He was still angry, Clara could tell, from the way Ashwood's chiselled jaw was clenched, making the fibres of the jaw muscle visible, and the way his chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. "You're not drowning, pretty boy." She whispered, feeling his heart beat fast and strong, trying to get out from his chest. Ashwood gave her a questioning look, slight astonishment showing in his lake-coloured eyes as if only now noticing the surgeon pressed to his front. "You're gulping the air down like a drowning man, Ash. Relax. You're hard as a rock, not very comfortable to be pressed into like that."

And then, she smiled. Smirked, to be more specific, mirth radiating off of Clara at the same time as waves of embarrassment radiated off of Ashwood, his chest underneath the grey shirt turning rosy. "This is... Not what you should have said, Clara." The anger, it evaporated from his voice as if never been there.

"I am stating the fact. Your chest is so bloody flexed and clenched that it feels like a wall of fucking rock. A mountain, if you want." The man let out a breath of relief, and that very same moment Clara felt the said muscles relax, body morphing back to flesh from stone.

"Your sense of humour is truly non-existent, Captain." He peeked from around the corner, and lessen his grip on the assassin. "Let's go, before you embarrass me any further." His hand slid down her arm, until reaching and taking her palm in his. Tugging gently, Ashwood wordlessly encouraged Clara to move.

"It's not my fault you have the shyness level of a five-year-old, Ash." To that, he mumbled something incoherent, squeezing the woman's hand in response. They were already in the safe zone, where the chance of bumping into a doctor or a nurse decreased greatly, therefore their pace decreased, too. From a frantic half-running, it went back to a relaxed stroll. Put a few trees here and there, a couple of bushes and one could think it was a couple wandering around in a park.

"I was not lying to you... Completely." It was said quietly, almost to the point where Clara didn't catch it. She gave him a narrowed-eye look, questioning, demanding an explanation. "I _am_ a guard here. But I haven't been one for that long. A white lie, call it that."

"What's the point of that? The duration, let it be a year or a week, does not matter that much..." And then, she stopped, making the man do the same. "Wait a moment." Her eyes narrowed once again, and Clara took an examining look at Ashwood. " _How_ long exactly have you been here?"

"As you've said, the duration is not of great importance." Ashwood took a defensive stance, his shoulders tensing once more. He was a man who wore his heart, his emotions, his feelings on his sleeve. Everything on full display. Clara, as much as she wanted to, couldn't ignore the obvious.

"You came here with a reason, didn't you?" The assassin leaned on the wall, observing the way his breathing got harsher and harsher again. Her comrade's eyes were pleading, asking her not to step into that territory. "And the reasoning is tied with your timing. Am I correct?" He remained unresponding, and Clara barked. "Ashwood!"

"It's none of your business, Clara." He said through clenched teeth. The vulnerability was quickly dissipating into thin air, giving place for the fury and irritation."There were times when you could command me to do anything, and I would fulfil your demands. Those times are far gone. I have my reasons, and they're only mine. Leave it be." Clara stared at him, thoroughly examining Ashwood's behaviour through the past week, the way he talked, the way he reacted to various situations, the way his throaty voice rose and fell, and the wheels in her head kept turning and turning, searching for individual pieces to put and analyze the bigger picture. Something was missing, something important that connected every single part, and Clara could not pinpoint that specific detail.

Before she could reach the conclusion, Ashwood grabbed her around the waist and backed them both into a tiny room used by the cleaning staff, brooms and washcloths piled to the ceiling. A sound of protest was silenced with the man's hand on Clara's mouth, her back pressed to his front. "Hush, Captain."

"Remind me why are we doing this?" The assassin tore his hand off her mouth, whispering with a note of annoyance.

"We had strict orders to not allow patients to wander around during the funeral. Not healthy for their frail psychological stability. And you," Ashwood's lips nearly touched Clara's earlobe. She could feel his breath on her face. "remember, you're one of the patients, while I am just an employee."

"I might have gotten hungry, and you escorted me to the canteen. Or anywhere else. There was no need to push me - us - into this disgusting place. You might just want to admit that you secretly like having me pressed to you, Ash. I wouldn't be mad." She was waiting for an answer, for Ashwood to deny her every word. Hoping for him to laugh silently, and dismiss her words as an attempt to embarrass him.

The answer was non-verbal, in a form of his increased heartbeat, the organ hammering its way out of the man's chest. Ashwood's grip on her waist tightened, warmth penetrating through her thin white shirt. The surgeon tightened her single fist, cursing lowly. "Fuck." With that, the man's breathing stabilized, and slowly, oh so slowly, with a deep sigh, Ashwood's hands dropped to his sides.

"Yeah. Fuck." He whispered lowly. Clara was staring at the closed door right in front of her face, not actually seeing it in the dark.

"I was starting to think you came here to hide from... Some kind of gang. Or that you've gotten involved with the mafia. Or..." To that, he chuckled.

"Me? Involved with the mafia? Seriously?" She could feel his chest vibrating with laughter.

"Why not? You've changed. But I was not expecting... This." She swallowed, visibly shaken and out of her comfort zone. Her comrade, someone she knew from his early adulthood, the man she expected to fall for her the last... Clara wanted to be in denial, unfortunately, her personality was too down-to-earth, too observing, too... Logical. Too willing to accept the fact when she acknowledged one right in front of her.

"Clara." A low rumble that was his voice right next to her face forced her attention to him. Ashwood was not touching her, the man only leaned forward to murmur into her ear. "I do not expect... Anything. Ever. You should not have known about this. And if not the clown, it would have stayed that way."

"You're confusing me. What has Joker do with this... Situation?"

"We... Talked. Just before you've been brought here."

"About what?"

"You."

"Well, obviously." Clara rolled her eyes, finally recovering from the initial shock. "I hope only good things?"

"Of course. We drew the line."

"Do I want to know what that means?"

"No. Look," Ashwood breathed slowly, calming himself down. "I wanted to protect you. I did not know what to expect from you being in Arkham Asylum. That's it. Call it a voice of panic. I can't control my body and its reactions, but I can control my conscious behaviour. When I'm in my right mind, I will never do anything that might put you in an uncomfortable state."

"I would strangle you if I could, Ash." Clara felt him stiffen. "Because, as much as I denied it, you were one of the few people I never intended to hurt. You just had to ruin this, didn't you?" A humourless laugh escaped her mouth, sounding forced even in her own ears. The man stayed silent for a heartbeat until he brought his hands back around her waist, squeezing the thinning torso gently.

"It's okay, Captain. I'm used to being hurt."

Song of the chapter: Radiohead - House of Cards


	27. The Visitor

Clara was staring. She was staring at herself in a mirror, hard. With her grey eyes narrowed, the assassin examined, really took in the way her body looked. What she saw, it did not please her. At all.

She rarely thought about her body as a piece of something beautiful. The inked art on her back, chest and arms was beautiful. Her body was capable of doing amazing things, and it was beautiful to watch it perform. It was beautiful, magnificent in its complexity, its management to survive, to thrive under pressure. But as a physical being, Clara did not believe her body being something of great beauty. No matter what others said. The assassin's attractiveness was achieved unintentionally, as a by-product of everything that she did to maintain her health and fluent body usage.

The saying states that one starts valuing things only when he loses them. Clara used to laugh at it, retorting that it tends to happen only for dreamers, youngsters and the naive ones. But like many things in life, she was proved wrong. It's only the ego that makes one believe humans are like snowflakes - every each of us different from one another. Clara was someone who had the ego of two. Or three. Was she responsible for believing she differed from others that much? No, she wasn't. Her ego, the irrational, arrogant part was.

Her confidence disappeared as soon as she took a really good look at herself in the dirty asylum's mirror, noticing every little detail that was different. Starting with the obvious, the beautiful ship on her left deltoid and part of her chest was ruined, scarred and missing parts of the ink where the skin had been peeled off. Moving her eyes down, she met the void, empty space where a long limb once was. The phantom arm was there, real as ever, but without material to touch. The woman tried to wave with it, to move the arm, but the only thing that changed its place was her shoulder, twitching slightly at the effort. Clara let out a sigh, relaxing the aching side, her steely gaze drawn to the rest of her physique.

At every stage of her life, Clara's body was forced to change to accommodate various needs. To survive, first, you have to adapt. In her late teens, she had been tall and lean, with a long, slender torso, snake-like limbs, built like a swimmer. Those features helped her move fluently through space, reach her target without a sound. She was barely a shadow on the wall, lithe body deadly and quick. It served her well until it didn't.

Later years, spent at the university, were not as adventurous. Clara gained some weight, filled out and started to actually look a woman and not a child. There was no particular purpose in her life at that moment, except for getting her degree, therefore her body did not resemble anything unusual. And even then, her height ensured that she would always remain somewhat proportionate, even with the additional mass on her. No wonder the majority of men found her physically attractive - the assassin's youth was filled with the opposite sex.

Then, there was the army. Clara was twenty-seven, a fully grown woman when she departed overseas, started working out, got stronger and developed her musculature. Where once were soft, womanly curves, the muscle took its place, giving her shape a harder, more angular look. Not to the point of being masculine, but enough to announce everyone that she was a force to be careful around. The surgeon became maximally efficient, her body - a perfectly working machine, made to wield a weapon and stand on feet for ten hours straight, carry a comrade from the war field, and send the assaulters six feet under.

Now? Now she did not know what purpose her body did have. Clara was a thirty-four-year-old woman, whose life shattered into pieces, and her body knew that very well. The machine broke down, refusing to cooperate.

It was not the sickly-looking leanness that made Clara anxious. She could deal with it, as long as her flesh did not fall off the bones. No, it was the abstract matter of not being _herself_ that the woman could not tolerate. She was not herself. Her body did not function properly, and it was all due to the fact that her habits, forged in fire and ice in the most unlucky periods of her life and therefore as solid as the hardest diamond, were sabotaged, ripped away.

Many people underestimate the power of routine. But only the lucky ones can actually have a fulfilling existence without something constant. Familiar. Clara was not one of the lucky ones. She was a schemer. A theoretic, who needed constant insurance, not the one of money, but of her environment. She needed warrant predictions of what will happen the next minute.

Her whole life she was sure of everything. If she wasn't, she made sure she was. Self-reliance helped a lot. One can be poor, rich, homeless or live in a castle, as long as he relies on himself, his future is set in stone. A stone that only the man himself can alter. The moment you share your life, your thoughts, your _guts_ with someone else and allow them to become a significant part of your existence, nothing is sure anymore, because there comes this second constant in the equation of what equals _you_.

Then, add the fact that everything of the above was being done without your agreement. It sucks. Simple as that.

Clara let out a sigh. A deep one, making her lungs collapse. Almost. She wouldn't be a doctor if she believed one could actually make his lungs collapse that way. A wry smile, thinking about her _habits_ , grazed the woman's ever-chapped lips. They were soft, but completely bitten-down, not to the point of drawing blood, but enough to make the tender flesh peel off slowly. It was the assassin's way of biting off nails, or chewing on the insides of cheeks or picking on the skin around nail beds. One of those nasty habits you can not get rid off.

"Clara?" The woman's startled grey eyes drifted back to the mirror, except now meeting another set in the back of it. A beautiful blue-green colour, darkened by the dim light, staring at her with a guarded, careful concern. It lowered briefly, taking in her reflection, and then shot back. A rosy shadow appeared on the intruder's neck, but the man refused to lower his head.

"You're too young to be a pervert, Ash."

"I knocked at the door. You did not answer."

"Sure thing." The surgeon nodded, bringing her gaze back to the cut-off limb. "How does that look?" At her question, the man moved his head a bit, shrugging his broad shoulders at the same time.

"Like a healed up wound?" Clara swayed her head from side to side,

"Hmm. It kinda does. Matches both my gorgeous, scarred skin and personality." She referred to a set of various-sized scars on her abdomen, back and hands, clearly visible due to the lack of shirt concealing her upper body. She felt Ashwood's gaze caressing the huge crocodile tattoo on her back, and an involuntary shiver ran down her spine. "I am too old for you, Ash. You know that, right?"

"My father was older than my mother by a decade. It did not prevent him to impregnate her twice."

"Some people believe the Earth is flat, and dinosaurs never existed. It does not mean we should follow them with our own beliefs."

"No. But it means we would not be alone. It happens around us all the time. Besides," He cleared his throat, a rumbling sound echoing in the empty bathroom, while Ashwood's eyes finally stopped examining the inked flesh of her backside. "As I said, I do not expect you to jump my bones anytime soon. Ever, to be more specific." To that, Clara lifted both of her eyebrows, mirth plastered all over her bony features.

"Right. Sure you don't."

" _I_ do not. My body and my consciousness have different personalities."

"I can see that." The woman sounded as if she was on the verge of letting out a burst of laughter. It didn't help that the crimson colour travelled from the man's neck to his face. It was a sight worth memorizing. A devilishly handsome man with his sculpted cheeks flaming hot, his eyes shooting daggers at her. "Don't worry. I am a doctor. I don't mind explicit sights. You should relax."

"I am perfectly relaxed. It's not for you to remind me anything why I came here, Clara. You have a visitor."

"You've got an interesting way of showing your intentions, Ashwood. And a very convenient timing." Clara allowed her words to linger for a moment while she reached for a t-shirt laying on a chair. "I did not order anything. Or anyone."

"Well, _he_ ordered you, if you want to put it this way." Ashwood reached forward, wordlessly helping the woman to put on the piece of clothing, covering her exposed flesh. He managed not to touch the bare skin, a real gentleman, as always. "The man said you've got some unfinished business with him." At his words, Clara went completely rigid. Ashwood gave her a worried look, not able to ignore this sudden change in behaviour. Whoever this newcomer was, the commando was not fond of him being here. He assumed she knew who was waiting for her, even without asking for the physical description of the visitor.

"Did he say anything else?"

"No, at least not for me. I assume he had talked with someone of staff, they don't seem to mind an outsider being in Arkham Asylum. He only asked me to bring you to finish whatever has to be done."

"I see. Then let's not waste _his_ time, Ashwood."

"Are you sure? I could inform them you're not feeling too good..." His voice wavered a little, question clear within Ashwood's tone. It was a rare thing for Clara to feel troubled. If it happened, the case surely was something more than she let out.

"I'm fine. Stop worrying too much. You're too young to get lines on your face." She dismissed him with a flick of her wrist, already slipping away from his arms and heading towards the door. The only thing that Ashwood could do was follow her lead, catching up with the woman as soon as they exited the room.

The walk down was filled with tense silence, radiating off of both of them. Though their long strides were filled with confidence, despite the lion waiting. Certain habits, as if not show fear when heading somewhere dangerous, were rooted inside the soldiers' heads. One simply does not command respect if he can't control his own responses to various triggers. Especially Clara, who knew that being one of the rare women in the army demanded some additional show-off.

The assassin had a vague feeling who the visitor was. Thinking about it, only one man from the outside world actually had something to say, to confront Clara, to demand answers and pay-backs. The knowledge did not make it any better. Sometimes, the blind meet provided more comfort.

The visiting room, unsurprisingly, was completely empty, save for the lonely man, Clara's visitor. Although with all the furniture it was somewhat prepared for a crowd of friends and family, Arkham Asylum usually was the last stop for the insane ones, criminals, without people who cared about them that much. For someone to remain in contact with his loved ones simply did not happen here. Their talk will be quite comfortable and undisturbed, the woman pondered, save for Ashwood, who had to remain by her side for the safety of her visitor. These were the rules he did not intend to break. She was fine with it. Perhaps what _he_ will say will stir the young man away, after all the dirt of her actions is exposed. Meaning, less work for Clara trying to explain why there should not be any gentle feelings towards her on his behalf.

As the surgeon was debating with herself in her mind, Ashwood cleared his throat, successfully getting the other man's attention. Immediately when he spun around from his sitting position, Clara felt herself going rigid again, involuntary. This time it was not the tension freezing her, not anger or fear. It was pure shock and confusion, paralyzing the woman for a moment.

Upon hearing about this visitor, the first man coming to her mind was Bruce Wayne. Her supposed-to-be friend which she betrayed by actively hurting the woman he loved. And she would have understood the reasoning behind his visit. To shout, to confront and hurt her, to do _something_. To not remain in the background, allowing the antagonist to enjoy her holidays in the asylum.

Well, it was not Mr Wayne who decided to pay the assassin a visit. Clara's jaw was borderline broken from the force she was locking it with, and her remaining fist balled in a vice-like grip, nails almost piercing the skin. "What are _you_ doing here, Lucius?"

The African-American man allowed a small smile to grace his plum lips, dark brown eyes taking in the state his ex-partner was in. It lingered on the empty sleeve, moving upwards towards her angular face and malnourished body until he met Clara's steely, cold gaze. Undisturbed calmness met the woman's confusion, which at the moment was morphing into something that closely resembled fury. "I am visiting an old friend. Can't you tell, Doc? Bringing you some treats." With that, he turned around, picking up a filled plastic bag. The woman eyed it suspiciously.

"I am not a dog to be given treats."

"Of course not. Freshly cooked lamb is far too expensive for dogs. Besides, chocolate is harmful to their organs. Did you know that?"

"No, I didn't. I have never owned a dog, remember?" Clara snapped, successfully bringing Lucius's attention from the bag to herself. "I asked you what are you doing here?"

"And I answered you kindly, Doc. If you had been listening in the first place, there would be no need to repeat your question. But it's okay, even you are not immortal and immune to deafness." Before she could bark an insult, Clara heard a low rumbling sound behind her, similar to a collapsing mountain. Twisting her head, she caught the corner of Ashwood's mouth lifting up, the sound apparently being his chuckle. This was not going the way she wanted it to.

With a sharp, yet controlled look, she turned, coldly addressing the tall, dark-skinned man in front of her. "I have no intentions to play one of your games, Fox. We've had enough of them in the past. State your business and go away."

"I will. But first, you have to eat." Not waiting for her response, Lucius spun around, placing the bag back on the table and taking out whatever was inside. A thermos, and a glass container, also a fork and a knife. "Do not even think about using it for assault, Clara." He murmured silently, giving the woman a pointed look. There was no need. She could only stand and watch him with growing uneasiness, eyeing the food in front.

The first wave of aroma hit her unexpectedly. And with 'hit', it was a quite literal hit - the scent of spices assaulted her nose in the most beautiful way possible, followed quickly by the unmistakable smell of lamb. Clara felt her mouth salivating without a command, her grey eyes drawn to the opened container. Like a starving woman, which she was, the assassin stared at food like it was a straw needed to get oneself from drowning. "Are you sure you don't want me to..." Lucius didn't get to finish his sentence before Clara launched forward, gripping the fork and shoving the first bite into her mouth. "...cut the meat for you?"

She did not care the pieces were giant and steaming hot, the taste, oh the taste, her starved mind was fixated on the taste, not even noticing the burning sensation on her tongue. A low, barely audible moan tore through her lips, showing how much that single bite actually meant to the woman.

Food. Who have thought that food, _good_ food, might be of such significance for someone as rational, down-to-earth as Clara? Well, it wasn't. Under normal circumstances, the assassin wouldn't blink its way, choosing to ignore any distraction. In a perfect world, eating would remain a necessary nuisance, a mean to get the energy to sustain constant loads of work.

Arkham Asylum was hardly a definition of a perfect world, and the woman surely was not in the optimal environment. Under the right circumstances, it is possible to break anyone. Some way or another, every each of us has its downfall. The two men, staring at the starved assassin, remained silent, acknowledging the downfall of a mountain. Something as simple as a meal made Clara succumb. Knowing her personality, it was easy to think that her end might be something far greater, much more complex. But sometimes, the simplest, tiniest of things that happen to us are the worst ones. You don't need a tirade to break someone. One word is enough.

Lucius cleared his throat. It took Clara no more than fifteen minutes to empty the container. She was sitting, slowly sipping green tea from the thermos's lid, staring into the far wall weirdly. One would give such stare if the wall had threatened him personally. Hearing the sound, the woman's eyes snapped back towards the African-American, and the moment's emotion was gone. Her posture straightened immediately. "The food was... Good."

"I know." His lip twitched. "I wouldn't bring you anything that's bellow perfect."

"I meant it was acceptable. Not perfect." Clara was back into the character, her remarks as warm as Antarctica. "A little underseasoned if I must be honest. Lamb can take much more. Now," The woman gave him a calm, analytical look, putting her hand on top of the table. "why are you here?"

"You're not very glad seeing me, are you, Doc?"

"I don't like surprises, Lucius. I was not expecting you."

"So it's the fact that I came unannounced, and not me?"

"You could point it that way." She watched him sit at the other side of the table and connect his fingertips. Curious eyes bore into her, glinting from behind Lucius's old, veiny hands. They were as vascular as Clara's but in a different, ageing-like way. "Besides, I assumed it was a different person waiting downstairs."

"He did not want to see you." She nodded, understanding who the mentioned he might be. "This past month has not been easy."

"He - who?" A deep voice came from behind her. Ashwood neared them, his steps light and long. Clara ignored the man by fishing out an enormous bar of chocolate from the bag Lucius brought. The surgeon lifted it and smashed into the table. A muffled crack followed her action. Carefully, to not spill any goodness, she pried inside, taking a piece of rich dark-brown sweet. The dark-skinned man smiled a little when she closed her cold orbs for a moment, savouring the divine taste.

"I swear, you should have developed diabetes by now, Doc. The amount of chocolate you consume is surely unhealthy."

"I eat it every day, but not a lot at once. Well, ate. Now, I'm compromising for the lost time." With that, she threw another piece in her mouth, Clara's posture finally relaxing in her seat, reaching the point when she did not even care about Ashwood stealing her chocolate. "As for who _he_ is, I don't see a reason for you to care."

"Do you know Bruce Wayne, young man?" Lucius asked, successfully making Clara frown at him. A short nod came from Ashwood, curiosity shining in his beautiful blue-green eyes. "Good. Our friend here," he motioned towards the assassin. "had a promising start of a relationship which might have extended many years forward. Unfortunately, she decided it was not worth to feel a little emotional discomfort, change a few character features, throw a few ''noes" here and there, and finally have a real friend. Instead, she decided a crazed clown, who could never provide safety nor normality, was worthier of her time. As a result, Mr Wayne's past love interest got blown-up, while the man himself fell into the river of depression and betrayal. Thanks to our mutual friend here."

Silence stood for a few minutes, neither one of them saying anything. Clara was busy throwing Lucius dagger-like looks, which could have killed a lesser man, while Ashwood simply stood, his mouth pressed in a tight line. "This sounds... Suspiciously like something only the Captain could do." He finally murmured, bending down to reach another piece of chocolate.

"Indeed." The African-American immediately nodded, a small, agreeing smile stretching his lips. "Ruthless, irrational and scared of warm feelings."

"Are you finished yet?" The woman's voice was unusually low, barely audible in the large room.

"Not quite. But, I am afraid, further conversation has to remain private." With that, he motioned to Ashwood to leave, meeting his unbelieving gaze. "I can take care of her for an hour, young man. She will not stab me."

"But..."

"Trust me, you don't want to hear what will be said." The low sound of protest still bubbled in the younger man's throat, until Clara twisted around, her steely eyes holding something indescribable in them. Commanding, they were commanding indeed, but in the far bottom, something gentler could also be detected. She took the opened packaging of the chocolate in her hand, bringing it up towards Ashwood. Without a word, he took it, long fingers touching Clara's just for a moment. "Let your superior protect you, if only for this one time."

 _Song of the chapter: Metallica - Fixxxer_


	28. The Monster That Died (not)

"Do you realize you're asking me to be a coward?" A cool fire burned in Clara's even colder, freezing eyes as she was staring at the African-American man sitting in front of her. She herself could admit being many things. Horrible, honourable and in-between. Coward was certainly not among them. If anything, it should have been the opposite.

"Nobody says that, Doc. You're thinking too much again. It's just another mission that needs to be accomplished."

"Missions are supposed to lift you up in others' eyes. Not make you lesser than dirt on their shoes."

"At this point, you definitely should stop feeding your own arrogance, Clara!" The sudden bark coming from Lucius's mouth took the woman by surprise. "For it's not worth the consequences. I give you an option, an easy way. Don't reject it just because of your pride speaking, because there is nothing better for you. Admit it, and take action."

For the past hour, they'd been talking. Shouting occasionally, but mainly just talking. Discussing, to be more specific. And the longer they kept doing that, the more infuriated Clara became. And although the cold fire in her steely eyes never eased, if you knew where you needed to look, you could see fear lingering underneath the charade of braveness. Unfiltered fear, the one seen only in the eyes of a soldier who is about to go on his last mission. Could this be her last mission?

Lucius heaved a sigh. A deep, calming one. Throwing a weighty, somewhat understanding look towards the stubborn woman, he slowly stood up. Their conversation was done, everything that had to be said already muttered. It was only up to a certain person to decide whether to take into account his words or remain in the dark nurturing wounded ego. _And possibly lose herself completely._

Taking a different bag from underneath the table, a dark-coloured and made from a stiff, not see-through fabric, he put it on top. Clara's eyes were involuntarily drawn to the medium-sized object. Thanks to their previous discussion, she knew what was inside. The content of it offered sin among the walls of Arkham Asylum, as tempting as the forbidden apple, if not more. But was the price worth it?

"Don't support your delusions, Clara. Once, they were the reality. But 'now' changes. To survive, you have to adapt. I wish you luck, for we will not meet again." With a final look, he gently touched the assassin's shoulder. A single squeeze sealed their meeting, consolidating the meaning behind their words. Without another word, the man moved around towards the exit. Opening the door, he nodded swiftly to the anxious male behind them and disappeared in the hall. For full two minutes, nothing but slow, steady breaths could be heard in the empty room.

"What was that about, Captain?" Upon hearing the low baritone, Clara blinked a little and closed her eyes, resting her head against the back of the chair. The sound broke her hypnotic staring at the wall. Ashwood had a tendency to pry into alien businesses that he could not fully comprehend, yet was interested in.

"One day," A grave voice, much harsher than an hour earlier, reached the man. "you will lose your nose for sticking it so much where it does not belong." Ashwood smiled before nearing the woman. Clara felt him stop a few inches away. Unexpectedly, long, strong fingers touched her shoulders, feeling for the tense trapezius muscles, kneading them, releasing the pressure.

"Your accent is coming through. You might want to work on that." She felt a hot breath on her cheek, the touch not disappearing from her upper back. Clara deflated like a balloon, the stiffness running out, thanks to Ashwood's long digits working their magic.

Sometimes, she wished things were different. That she wouldn't be herself, and wouldn't have her principles, her knowledge, her... Everything. Life might be easier that way. She could appreciate all the little things around, take and give back without restraints. Without thinking. Without constantly seeing the invisible line between 'yes' and 'no', and actually having things that could be accepted without a second thought. What a life might that be! What opportunities! What prospects!

"You're... Quite acceptable at this."

"Why thank you, Captain. You seemed a little... How to put it, in a chafe. Assumed it might actually help you to cool down. That, or a cold shower. Also aids well in uncomfortable situations." From above, he noticed a slight twitch on Clara's lips.

"Of course you should know that. The cold shower part, I mean. Such a useful tool helps with absolutely everything." She opened her frosty eyes, meeting the ones coloured like lake water on a sunny day. The steel should not be able to feel amused, but somehow, those grey orbs projected unsaid mirth within them. Clear mock, to which Ashwood answered with a touch of crimson rising up his neck.

"Are you making fun of me because you get a reaction from me, or because I am a man - something that proud females tend to ignore as their equals? Or superiors in certain fields, but I am sure some women are very successful in defeating _this_ sort of gravity." His fingers stopped kneading the woman's flesh, instead choosing to slide down slowly her shoulders, then one arm, until his own limbs extended to their maximum.

"I am not sure what you wanted to say with the last part, but I definitely enjoy seeing your blood rushing towards the surface of your skin. I am a feminist, Ashwood, but I would not make fun of a man just because of my beliefs." She chewed on her lip for a moment, contemplating her next words. "Don't get me wrong. I like seeing strong female characters taking the world in their hands. Or hand. Men were ruling it for far too long, wasting its resources and building unprofitable, useless structures, accomplishing irrational ideas. But I would never go as far as making fun of men and their... Needs and... Bodily functions."

"You're trying to change the topic, aren't you? By introducing a view to which I might want to argue with."

"How would you know?" A tiny, the most conservative smirk graced those long, chapped lips. "It was you who started talking about men's rights in the first place, Ash." Suddenly, Clara bent her neck, protruding a hollow sound. The man flinched, immediately removing his hands from her body. He hated that sound. The commando knew that. What she did not expect was him to move around her and prompt himself on the abandoned chair.

"Don't even think of leaving me in the dark, Captain." His jaw clenched, making the lines of his face harsher, more prominent. Involuntary, Clara wished to just sit like this and keep staring, drinking in the Ancient Greek statue gone alive, for some miracle choosing to waste his time right here, with her. It was not an attraction, she was sure of this. No, it was simple appreciation, admiration of his aesthetics, which would be valued even without Ashwood's personality. Knowing him in person made it even more enjoyable, because now, Clara could hold in high regard both his physical beauty and his persona.

She cleared her throat. And it was not a typical I-need-some-time-to-think cough, no, it sounded as if something was genuinely stuck in Clara's throat, blocking the way for words to escape. "Let's have a... Conversation. Or better, be silent and let me do all the talking. I will tell you a short story. That's all you will get from me."

"Is this story of yours related to the matter of your visitor?"

"Definitely. Not as closely as to give away all the answers, but I believe, at some point in the future, it will make a lot of sense. I promise. Now, will you allow me to do that?" The man furrowed his eagle-wing eyebrows just a tiny bit, making a barely noticeable line appear on his otherwise smooth forehead. After a few seconds, he nodded slowly, not breaking eye contact. "Good."

Clara extended her long legs underneath the table. Her foot bumped Ashwood's shoe, forcing him to break intense staring by lowering his gaze for a moment. When he lifted his eyes once more, ash-blonde hair falling into them, the man noticed the same fire of amusement blazing within her light-coloured orbs. "Well? I'm waiting."

"Patience is a virtue. Not that you have either of them, Ash."

" _You..._ "

"Hush. Are you familiar with the book 'Cujo', Ashwood?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"That's what I thought." Clara nodded, her gaze becoming dreamy. She stared at the wall behind Ashwood, not really seeing it. "Then allow me to retell the story just for you. At first, there was a monster. Every good story needs a monster, trust me. A ruthless one. _He_ killed a waitress, named Alma Frechette, a woman named Pauline Toothaker and a junior high school student named Cheryl Moody. I'm sure there were numerous other people, but I don't remember their names. The monster, he was not werewolf, vampire, ghoul, or unnameable creature from the enchanted forest or from the snowy wastes; he was only a cop named Frank Dodd with mental and sexual problems. A good man named John Smith uncovered his name by a kind of magic, but before he could be captured - perhaps it was just as well - Frank Dodd killed himself. People of the town, they were shocked. But mostly just relieved because the monster which had haunted so many dreams was dead, dead at last. A town's nightmares were buried in Frank Dodd's grave. Are you following me?"

"I am."

"Good. Even in this enlightened age, when so many parents are aware of the psychological damage they may do to their children, surely there was one parent somewhere in Castle Rock - or perhaps one grandmother - who quieted the kids by telling them that Frank Dodd would get them if they didn't watch out, if they weren't good, and surely-"

"That's what my mother told me and my sister when we were younger. I mean, not that Frank Dodd would get us, but about horrible creatures lurking in the dark." Ashwood met Clara's narrowed eyes and gave her a wide grin. "I'm sorry. Please continue, Captain."

"And surely a hush fell as children looked toward their dark windows and thought of Frank Dodd in his shiny black vinyl raincoat, Frank Dodd who had choked ... and choked ... and choked. ' _He's out there',_ the grandmother was whispering as the wind whistled down the chimney pipe and snuffled around the old pot lid crammed in the stove hole. ' _He's out there, and if you're not good, it may be his face you see looking in your bedroom window after everyone in the house is asleep except you; it may be his smiling face you see peeking at you from the closet in the middle of the night, the STOP sign he held up when he crossed the little children in one hand, the razor he used to kill himself in the other... So shhh, children... Shhh... Shhh.'_ " Clara's voice lowered a volume, reminding Ashwood of the stories that youngsters would tell around the fire while camping, in the middle of the night. "But for most, the ending was the ending. There were nightmares to be sure, and children who lay wakeful to be sure, and the empty Dodd house quickly gained a reputation as a haunted house and was avoided, but these were passing phenomena - the perhaps unavoidable side effects of a chain of senseless murders.

But time passed. Five years of time. The monster was gone, the monster was dead. Frank Dodd mouldered inside his coffin. Except that the monster never dies. Werewolf, vampire, ghoul, unnameable creature from the wastes. The monster never dies. He remains in people's memories to haunt them for the remainder of their lives." The woman traced her lips with one finger. "It's different for heroes, Ashwood. Heroes rarely remain in our memory as vivid and colourful as villains. They simply disappear." She met his blue-green gaze and smiled. A one-sided smirk graced her long mouth. But Clara's eyes remained cold and calculating, detached from the lower half of her face. "It's a good thing I never have truly been a hero."

Silence. Complete and utter silence. Ashwood didn't say a word after Clara had finished the story. It extended for so long that the assassin started doubting her choice of words. Was it inaccurate? Too hard to understand? Was Ashwood too stupid to grasp the right meaning and interpret it correctly? Had she overestimated his intelligence?

Well, it's for the better, then. She did not need him to interrupt her plans anyway. If Clara wanted the man to be informed about her schemes, she would have told everything straight in the first place. Right? Although it might have been nice to have another person, besides Lucius, who knew the stuff that was running through her head.

 _No_ , the surgeon immediately corrected herself. _No, it would be not._ She worked _alone_. Besides, Ashwood would most definitely not approve of her intentions.

"Clara..." Lightning speed, her head snapped towards the sound. Apparently, her comrade regained the gift of speaking. He was eyeing the bag on top of the table, suspiciousness clear in his beautiful face. "What's in there?"

"Seriously? I've just retold you the beginning of one of my favourite books of all time, and you're asking me what's in the bag?"

"Yes. Because, after hearing this story of yours, I'm not sure I want you to have it. Too many possibilities."

"Oh? What kind of?"

"The worst."

"Right." She nodded, leaning forward and snatching the bag before Ashwood could take a hold of it. "Good things, Ash. Only the good things that I might need are in there. Could we go now?"

"Go? Where?"

"To my room, of course. I want you to escort me to my room. It's late. I need my beauty sleep. Not that it helps much nowadays." Not waiting for the man, Clara stood up, swaying a little as blood rushed upwards, black dots appearing in her vision. It disappeared immediately as her body readjusted. Now she was prepared to move back.

Except, Clara did not intend to stay in her room. The night was still young. Certain businesses demanded her attention.

When Ashwood left her, she decided to wait another hour or two before going into action. To use the spare time, Clara opened the dark-coloured bag to inspect the tools in there. Lucius analyzed the plan throughout, making sure every detail was in place. What was left is to Clara to make sure those details were executed properly. One wrong decision and everything falls down. Like a house of cards. To achieve a firm structure, you've got to make sure every card is in its place.

That, and make sure she has the courage to actually do what has to be done.

Time went by, and soon, Clara was slowly opening the unlocked door of her room. Do sedated patients not wander around? They don't. Good thing the assassin continued throwing numerous pills down the toilet every day and was far from a vegetable.

Her mind was clear enough to remember the way to one specific room which she had visited only once before. A cell where a certain clown remained, restrained by that ridiculous shirt. She needed him this one night, to remind the woman every reason why not to stop, not give up. Or maybe giving up was exactly what she intended to do?

She neared the familiar door, taking out a pair of metal wires and moving them inside the lock. A simple trick as old as the invention of locks. A key? Who needs a bloody key? Well, apparently the ones who had only one hand to manipulate two wires. It took longer than it should have, but the sound of a click and a light creak when the door was opened was even more rewarding. Clara slipped into the dark room. She did not need light to know what - or who - was inside. Creeping forward, the assassin inhaled, searching for the specific, unique scent of gunpowder and paint. "You know, I truly miss my children."

"I don't remember making _any_ , _toots_."

"That's why they're mine, not ours. Don't they clean your ears?"

"Why _ask_ when you _know_ they don- _t_?" The familiar spitting of the letter soothed something inside Clara's chest.

"Just to make sure." She found the bed, managing to make out a large figure laying on top. Clara lowered herself on the furniture, careful not to sit on Joker's legs, and sighed. "Guns, J. I miss my guns like a mother would miss her children. And you," the surgeon indicated with her head the immobile figure. "you still smell like them even when you've not been exposed to gunpowder for a long time. It's nostalgic."

"How d'you _know_ I don't have a, uh, _bazooka_ underneath my _bed_?"

"Do you?"

" _No_."

"Then I know it by asking."

"I could be _lyin_ '."

"You could indeed." Amusement was clear in Clara's husky voice. Their conversation led nowhere, yet, it was refreshing to have someone arguing with her childishly. The clown twisted a few degrees in the bed, and then a few more, until after a vigorous wiggle the shirt gave up, allowing Joker to get his arms free of restraint.

" _Gunpowder_ , huh?"

"Hmm." Unexpectedly, the man threw himself forward, coming nose-to-nose with the assassin.

" _You_ , Ira, still smell like a bunch of _spices_. Annoyingly strong, overpowering and, uh, _here_."

"Oh?"

" _Oh_."

"Do you need physical evidence I'm here?"

The only answer that Clara got was his fathomless gaze, visible even in pitch-black darkness.

 _Song of the chapter: Empire Of The Sun - We Are The People_


	29. Forget-Me-Not

The same morning, a loud explosion disturbed the sleep of occupants of Arkham Asylum. Chaos broke together with the fire, giving an impression of something hellish. Ancient wrath overpowering the world, or at least an illusion of it. Just for a moment in one's life.

The staff that remained in the building during the night rushed towards the source of fire, mixing together with unstable, panicking patients. In the end, there was no difference between nurses, doctors and the asylum's madmen. Tragedy brings people together.

Everyone, except one. A tall man in a grey t-shirt, which hugged his shoulders snugly, stood farther away, the fire reflecting on the strands of his light hair. But even the original element could not compare with the heat blazing in his lake-coloured eyes.

Ashwood was feeling... Something. He did not know nor could name the emotion in his chest while watching fire violating the room in which his friend stayed. Comrade. Commander. Lover. _A friend_. Someone to keep close to his guts. _His heart_. Someone he swore to protect no matter the circumstances. Someone who swore not to hurt _him_ ever again.

People around him kept running, but the man paid attention neither to them nor a team of firefighters, emerging from the dark. His eyes were drawn to the fiery element, devouring everything in its way with unseen gluttony.

"A body!" A male voice shouted from inside the room. A body. They've found a body.

Later, they decided the body was too disfigured, too burned down to confirm its identity in a guaranteed way. Yet, no medical examiner could deny the fact that the corpse lacked his left limb, an arm. The room was searched for the missing part. None was found.

Pathologists examined the teeth. Even in the heat, they remained in relatively acceptable condition. Enough to conclude that they matched the dental blueprint of _her_ teeth. Without any additional filling in them, it was a rare thing for someone in his thirties to have such healthy teeth.

They decided to bury her in the same graveyard where every other patient was buried. Right in front of Joker's window. Two men, unaware of each other's distant company, followed the simple funeral procedure until the coffin disappeared into the black hole, and people separated.

That night, Joker could not sleep. He laid in his bed, staring at the ceiling, the whole time feeling a phantom, a warm, feminine, yet hard body pressed to his side, breathing down his neck. The illusion lured him, called the clown, murmured sweet nothings in his ear. He was defenceless against the mirage.

With a low, strangled groan, the man lifted himself from the bed, manoeuvering towards the dark window, from where the cemetery could be seen. Until his eyes adjusted to the dark, Joker stood there blind, unseeing and longing. He did not know what he was waiting for.

A dark form materialized from the night, moving swiftly, efficiently in between the graves. Tall and straight, the silhouette stopped in front of _her_ grave with its back facing the window, and bent down, putting something on the ground.

Joker narrowed his eyes, examining the form when it straightened up again, standing still, illuminated by the moon. Clothed in a long, black coat, its shoulders proud and... _Lacking_ , the person bowed his head, forcing a mass of shoulder-length, blonde hair to shift, catching the reflecting light. As if sensing the clown's attentive gaze, he shifted a fraction, turning his head towards the window.

The clown blinked. When he opened his bottomless, black eyes again, the form was gone.

The next morning, when Ashwood took a slow stroll towards the freshly-dug grave, something blue caught his eyes. A beautiful pale colour, draped over the ground, demanding attention in the deep brown background. Flowers, he concluded. There were blue flowers that someone put on the grave. A bunch of Forget-me-nots. His lake-coloured eyes involuntarily widened, words echoing inside the man's head.

 _The monster never dies. It's a good thing I never have truly been a hero._

 _Song of the chapter: In This Moment - In The Air Tonight_


	30. Incorrigible Creatures - Ashwood's story

Ashwood's original story after "The Schemer". The first chapter will be uploaded on the 5th of July. Until then, folks. Take care!


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